Harvard Application Essay: My Feminist Journey Into Murder
You admitted the Unabomber, so why not me?
Dear Harvard Admissions Committee,
I was born ambitious. I knew I wanted to get into Harvard University since receiving an American Girl Doll in a bespoke crimson cap and gown on Christmas morning when I was six. Then and there, I made it my life’s mission to get into Harvard. (I want to make it clear here that this was my goal and had nothing to do with finally gaining the love of my narcissistic parents.)
I got the right SAT score (1589) and the right GPA (4.3). I tutored disadvantaged public school brats. My breath control from the bassoon was so good, I could have sucked off Houdini after he tossed himself into the Charles. But let’s be honest, a thousand other modestly talented blond WASPs from Connecticut have that CV. I’m not a legacy student (my lazy-ass parents went to Holy Cross). I needed some grit to be the total package. I needed a hook.
So I chose murder.
Harvard has admitted no fewer than a half-dozen murderers — not including ex-presidents and Henry Kissinger. But not one of them made a known kill before their acceptance into your esteemed institution. Could I be that trailblazer?
We, as a society, need to stop pussyfooting around with fictional Gone Girls and get ourselves a Girl who has actually Gone There. Women have clawed their way to the top as scientists, as politicians, as CEOs. Why should women be shy about breaking into the ultimate boys’ club — murdering people with our bare hands?
Early on, I decided to specialize in serial killing. I was uninterested in becoming a mass shooter — too much toxic masculinity, too little skill involved, and a trifle gauche. A mass shooter, you remember the place. A serial killer, you remember their name.
I know I’m not supposed to rattle off my resume in an essay, but I promise these details were never covered in My Favorite Murder. I chose my victims as carefully as I chose my summer abroad volunteer program (which was building schools in Nepal, by the way).
Victim 1: Victoria Brightman — National Honor Society Scholarship finalist, American Classical Young Musician Award 2019 (woodwinds), kind of a bitch. It’s a tad cliché to knock off the competition, but honestly, Vickie was asking for it since the day she chucked my fifth-grade spelling bee trophy into a duck pond. I got my revenge last spring when I suggested we take a midnight row boat ride on that same pond. I waited until we were in the center of the water (and after she worked herself into a froth over the shoddiness of modern Steinways) before I struck the side of her head with my paddle. She flopped overboard — I used my phone’s flashlight to watch her sink down, down into the murky depths. She looked almost beautiful, like Ophelia — if Ophelia had drowned in duck shit.
Victim 2: Mr. Hardy, my American history teacher. I knew I needed a solid villain for my second kill. Mr. Hardy was the kind of teacher who would go red in the face screaming about the War of Northern Aggression while looking down your blouse. I certainly hope he enjoyed the sight of me in that Motel 6 room while I wore a Girl Scout uniform and did a sexy little dance to Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song.” Because I definitely relished seeing the light go out of his eyes as he slowly asphyxiated from the polyester tie I had wrapped around his neck.
Victim 3: Tom Perry, my boyfriend. He knew too much. He found my… clinical notes after I carelessly left my unlocked iPad on his bed. When I stabbed my Cross fountain pen to his jugular, his warm blood ran down my hand like homemade tomato soup, and I marveled at the quiet contentment I felt in my soul. To be perfectly frank, Tom was never quite on my level. I mean, he was going to Bennington.
Victim 4: Henry Kissinger. It didn’t work, he can’t be killed. Now he just has a cool scar on his face.
Before the FBI could close in on me, I uploaded my confession on TikTok (257 million views and counting!). You know what happened after that: my trial was televised on Court TV, I was defended by Gloria Allred, and I was clothed by Dior. I landed a six-figure deal with HarperCollins for my book Time Off for Bad Behavior: How I Overcame the Good Girl Syndrome Through Homicide. My story spawned a thousand thinkpieces on the gentrification of murder. And, of course, my interview with Diane Sawyer, which was so moving and insightful Diane cried (she’s such an inspiration). I just heard from my agent that Oprah is dying to get me into her book club — she’s a sucker for a redemption arc.
I’m slated for parole on my 18th birthday, just in time for that sweet, fat college acceptance package (and yes, please forward all correspondence by snail mail — the administrators don’t allow internet access here).
So Harvard, are you ready to make Herstory?
Sincerely,
Alison Wigglesworth
Fairfield Hills Secure Juvenile Detention
