Imagine it: a place where you can trade in the drudgery of the nine-to-five grind for the privilege of having your deepest, most personal work ripped apart in the name of 'constructive critique'. And don't even get me started on the endless nights of pouring your heart into prose that will be met with pretentious nods and the occasional, "It's good, but it needs more depth," from someone who hasn’t written anything worth reading themselves.

Who needs practical skills, marketable experience, or financial stability when you can have the cold comfort of knowing you attended a prestigious program? A program that churns out graduates with nothing but a fancy piece of paper and a head full of unmarketable dreams. It's the perfect escape plan for those who prefer existential dread and artistic suffering over the harsh realities of the real world.

And let's not forget the delightful prospect of joining the legions of MFA graduates who end up teaching, not because they love it, but because they have to pay the bills somehow. So, congratulations! Instead of dealing with the dull ache of reality, you get to bask in the sweet, relentless agony of literary self-flagellation, all while wondering why your bank account is empty and your prospects are bleak. But hey, at least you can call yourself a Master of Fine Arts, right?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5528146&forum_id=2:#47670475)

*Looks away from the monitor and stares longingly at the pistol beside his desk*

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5528146&forum_id=2:#47670580)

But the degree is only 2 years. And some people really like it and get a lot out of it. They put something new in the world also.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5528146&forum_id=2:#47670589)