<p>RyanMac, simply put, I love your essay. </p>
<p>I gotta say that only UChicago would appreciate such a wonderful combination of quirkiness, randomness, and true profundity. I mean, seriously, who would think that there's a great college essay lying within an ordinary picture of a plum. </p>
<p>Did you apply RD?</p>
<p>thanks azhao. I just got to yours and I really liked it as well; even though it still snows here it makes me miss the snowball fights as a kid too :( </p>
<p>I was deferred EA so I guess I applied RD now :) I was expecting rejection since my gpa is pretty crappy, but I spent a long time on my essays so maybe that helped.</p>
<p>Heres another one (I liked writing this because I plan on majoring in visual art and philosophy)</p>
<p>=================================
Questions 2. Would you please tell us about a few of your favorite books, poems, authors, films, plays, pieces of
music, musicians, performers, paintings, artists, magazines, or newspapers? Feel free to touch on one, some, or all of the </p>
<h1>categories listed, or add a category of your own. </h1>
<p>No, no, it’s all wrong – would you look at the disconnect? No, I mean really look at it. I disagree with nearly
everything you just said. Look at the way the letters just seem to keep filing along in order; they don’t even change
pace except for the occasional break between their constructions. Obviously I can read the words, but if I remove
myself from this as an essay for a moment, it doesn’t make any sense. Are there any considered aspects to its
interaction with both the denotations and connotations of the words it forms? It’s suffering from artistic myopia. How
does it actually change my perception of this as an essay? Visually, it’s unconsidered. Observe the margins. Observe
the spaces between everything. W .o r . ds. Is there logic behind it? Visual comprehension? – I highly doubt
it. Aspects of it do not correspond to anything but themselves. I think they’re quite selfish. No, I don’t like this very
much. No, this just won’t do. </p>
<p>Now this next piece, this is something worth looking at. Who did this? Oh ok; Mr. Steadman, right? Ralph, I
really like what you’ve done with this. This definitely feels considered. I’m familiar with your commercial work for
Thompson, but this is quite an interesting separation from your usual illustrations. In a way, it’s more successful
without an accompanying narrative. Sometimes I feel like your past work is slightly on the “obvious” side, and I have
to ask myself: how much information is too much? In a strictly representational sense, that is. I have to say you got it
right in this piece, and I think titling it simply “Teddy” was a wise move. It’s a simple etching, but it forces me to
reconsider my perception of teddy bears. The line work is pretty much spot-on; it really talks about the teddy bear as
a formal piece, and as this sort of ragged plaything of a child. Then there’s certainly an interesting juxtaposition
between this “dirty” quality and persona you’ve created for the bear via lines and composition with its connotations as
a symbol of innocence. Overall, the composition is right on too: there’s a certain level of tension between the edges of
the paper and the bear’s ears on the top left. The repetition of triangular forms is also an interesting compositional
touch. I think it adds to the feeling of uneasiness this piece seems to give off in a hortatory response. The lines are
jagged and rough, but at the same time, the bear looks to be this soft and worn out linen, almost peaceful. </p>
<p>That’s really what I find most interesting: there seems to be a considered discussion between the bear as a literal
figure, the composition you’ve placed it in, and the medium. I wouldn’t even consider the differences between this as
a tonal and linear drawing to be differences at all: the integration is a work of art in and of itself. But I think the icing
on the cake is the texture you’ve managed to get with this paper. It’s not white, not beige, and not gray. It has a
subtlety of yellow tones which, combined with the way you’ve made these jagged and almost delicate looking marks,
really adds to the feeling I get from viewing this objectively and as a narrative. All in all, if I met this drawing on the
street and you weren’t there to defend it, it would give me a clear message. It visually makes sense. In that regard, I
have to say I love it.</p>
<p>essay prompt 4, the improv question =]
admitted EA</p>
<p>When James closed his eyes, there were Two White Doors.
They lurked in his peripheral, and it was a good thing that the Doors were in his brain, because it was a choice only he could make.
He could ask her, or he could... not ask her. It was like that. One of those things.
The problem was, those Doors were always there, in his mind. He couldn't stop thinking about her. In fact, his overactive, analytical, jet-fuel-powered brain was not only thinking of her but making up large fantasies about her. He could remember one just that day which had involved a triangle of sorts...
in which one gorgeous girl, squared, had come together with himself, squared, (and so really he was two people and he could remember it twice as well) and when they met...
Well. Suffice to say, the square root of one baby was made.
That was in his head, though, and she was oblivious to how he felt. In fact, she had no idea that he, uh, sat right next to her in math class.
Realizing this gave him a horrible feeling. It was the same feeling he had gotten when their class’ Most Popular Boy had shoved the entire Periodic Table of the elements into James' mouth so he choked and spit gooey Ag and Mn right at her feet. It was the same feeling he had gotten when he was rejected from the University of Chicago earlier that year.
It was not a good feeling.
He had only attempted to impress her every day, using tactics like The Lending of the Perfectly Sharp No. 2 Pencil to a Beautiful Girl and Forgetting to Ask For It Back. However, all his techniques were like pointillism; millions of tiny dots, and she never stepped back to look at the whole picture.<br>
James unfolded his hands. He opened his eyes. Time to stop thinking. It would be trite to say that ‘all of a sudden he knew what he had to do.’ He had known that he had to ask her or nothing would ever improve; it was only the way things worked in every movie, every fleshy romance novel ever written.
Adam Smith’s invisible hand pushed a human to want more, pushed James to act now. It took him by the hair and shook, actually.
He focused on the small things to calm himself. There was a rock in his shoe. She still used his pencil, scratching integrals onto her paper. With her lovely red nails.
He began to crease a paper, printed with problems. He folded it sleekly, and aerodynamically. In the center of the airplane he had written the question. Will you go with me? James whispered out of the corner of his mouth, projecting his voice into the paper. The prom. It was a nervously scrawled sentence; it was fantastic.
James inched his hand to the edge of his desk. And he flicked. He flicked the plane ever-so-smoothly onto the edge of her desk.
His pores began to produce waterfalls of sweat, and his heart went though a transformation. (in which it stopped.)
And her nails slid into the creases of the page, and pried f’(x) from 27y, and she saw, and she smiled, and blood flowed through his left ventricle again and his heart pumped and filled with a million feelings, an aura of deepest content, and a relation between he and her, jeong as best he knew it, and she raised her hand, and caught his eye, but only for a moment…
“Yes?” the teacher drawled.
She spoke, softly yet caustically, “James is harassing me. Can you do something?” Her eyes brimmed with deep sarcasm.
James froze in an unexpected silence, within which he could feel a million amused eyes on his clammy face. And in that silence, the Two White Doors slammed shut.
“And yes I said yes I will Yes,” decided the teacher, tapping her chalk. “That’s Joyce, for those of us that can’t read anything more than an M&M. James. See me after class.”
“Yes,” James sighed, and went back to daydreaming. What more could he expect? After all, a girl is a girl is a girl. Only a girl. But she was the girl with his pencil.
The bell rang. James caught his teacher’s eye. He would get the pencil back, but not now; it could wait until tomorrow.</p>
<p>So, I'm just a junior, so I haven't applied yet, but here's a UChicago essay (I don't plan to use it, which is why I think its OK to post it.) based on an old UChicago prompt (something along the lines of "given the probability that Dennis Rodman, et al, are aliens, tell us about another person that is an alien and why.")</p>
<p>William Shakespeare Is An Alien, and Why</p>
<pre><code>We hear polite clapping, preferably recorded, as PROFESSOR FLIDGEWIDGET ascends a grand, and very expensive staircase. HE bears a curious resemblance to Dennis Kucinich. One might pause at this moment, and reflect that Shakespeare never required extensive use of parentheticals and stage directions, unlike the author. He was satisfied with enter, exit and exeunt.
The PROFESSOR stands at the lecturn. His glasses are askew, and very colorful. He wears a conservative suit, though its stately appearance is somewhat marred by the large green-and-purple tulips sticking out of the lapel.
</code></pre>
<p>Professor:
Today I would like to tell you that William Shakespeare was an alien, and why. </p>
<p>A-hem.</p>
<p>William Shakespeare was not born on this planet. Clearly, his preternatural understanding of human nature suggests that he, at some point, took the place of outside observer, underailed, as lesser poets are, by his own humanity, which he did not have, because he was an alien. Clearly, the alien William Shakespeare was floating far above the earth, watching, waiting. His eyes likely glowed a sapphire blue. There were probably antennae involved. </p>
<pre><code>The PROFESSOR presses a button. A grand, and highly expensive, projection screen descends from the theater ceiling. A picture of the Alien William Shakespeare as described by the PROFESSOR appears on the screen.
</code></pre>
<p>Professor (Con't):
It is the general consensus of Shakespearealienologists that he likely used these antennae to siphon off the thoughts of people, perhaps a greedy wife, or a group of foolish lovers meeting in a forest. It is likely that he then digested the thoughts, like protein, broke them into their emotional and philosophical amino acids, and, having done this, ran these raw building blocks of the human through a machine, matching them to human history, legend, and previous dramatic works. He utilized this machine because Shakespeare, if that is his real name, had to find some way to link the grand truths he had digested to the pitiable names and places we mere humans are able to comprehend: Julius Ceasar, Tristan und Isolde, Verona, Padua. Finally, his digestion cells, located somewhere near what would be our frontal cortex, packaged the emotional amino acids for transport, and shipped them, through a complex and as-of-yet not fully understood intercelluar transport mechanism, to the poetic cells, which synthesized poetry from the amino acids in a way not unlike the construction of proteins in the human body, using basic plotlines and characters as DNA.</p>
<pre><code>HE pauses and gives a meaningful glance at the audience, before launching into the grandest portion of his speech:
</code></pre>
<p>In short, the Alien formerly known as Shakespeare (whose weird little symbol-thingy would have been too complex for our human minds to understand) was a being whose entire body, down to the cellular level, operated in such a manner as to produce excellent poetry, provide excellent characters to speak said poetry, and create excellent situations in which said characters could collide. How else can you explain such genius? What else, save the concentrated effort of every particle of a being, could produce such magnificent art? What else, I ask you, what else?!</p>
<p>Of course, not everything the Shakespeare-Alien digested could be used to create true brilliance. Because his basic mechanism for gathering fuel for cellular respiration is believed to involve the consumption of public works of art, it follows that he is frequently forced to digest three to four acts of extraneous material in order to reach a few minutes of genuine artistic sustenance. Consequently, many leading researchers in the field of Shakespearealienology believe that Coriolanus, for example, was excreted.</p>
<p>But the vast majority of the human experience that the mighty Shakespeare-Alien consumed was indeed turned into plays, sonnets, two fragments of an epic poem, and a joke book (the latter two, after being rejected by the home office of poet-aliens, currently orbit Pluto, which is a planet, no matter what anybody says). The surviving plays have inspired poets and actors for centuries hence, while Shakespeare himself, much like the mythical King Arthur, who was actually an alien himself---this is a little known fact---stays in a blissful sleep, hibernating while subsisting on a stored diet of artistic genius accumulated through his feasting upon public performance of his and other works of artistic merit. (Of course, based on the modern theater, the Shakespeare alien ought to be getting rather hungry around now). It is my personal conjecture that he will awaken one day very soon and visit vengeance on Jerry Bruckheimer. </p>
<p>Well, I trust that you have enjoyed this brief dissertation on the fact that Shakespeare is an alien, and why, and I do hope that you will join us next week for the lecture on the fact that Virgil, Homer, Henrik Ibsen, and Stephen Joshua Sondheim, are all aliens, and why.</p>
<p>Thank you all. Good night and good luck.</p>
<pre><code>The unseen AUDIENCE applauds.
Exeunt all.
</code></pre>
<p>I have to agree with jarnizzl. It seems to me no one wanted to do the Borges y yo topic. I found it very interesting though. I kind of, sort of, quite possibly wrote a little more than a page but I hope no one minds.</p>
<p>TOPIC: In Jorge Luis Borges's Labyrinths, he writes a parable entitled "Borges y yo," which translates as "Borges and I." In it, Borges writes about "the other one," his counterpart, who shares his preference for "hourglasses, maps, eighteenth century typography, the taste of coffee, and the prose of Stevenson," but is not the same as he. "The other one" is the famous author; "the other one" is the one "things happen to." He concludes this parable with the line "I do not know which of us has written this page." Write a page. Who has written it?</p>
<p>It was dark. My arms stretched before me, trying to feel their way through the passage. Where am I!?</p>
<p>A deep resonating voice filled the void, or maybe my mind, There are only two definites in this world well three if you are religious </p>
<p>Was I dreaming? Maybe there was someone else in the passageway with me. Or maybe maybe Im finally going crazy.</p>
<p>One, we are born. And two, we die The in-between, well that is up to you </p>
<p>My head was spinning. Or maybe it was the ground. Or maybe Einsteins principal of relativity seemed so irrelevant now. What if Descartes was wrong? I was still rationalizing. But what if I no longer was? What if I was dead, and this was my path to ? I closed my eyes. I longed for home, my bed, my blanket, and maybe a cup of hot chocolate.</p>
<p>You can open your eyes now. And right, I should let you know, youre not dead.</p>
<p>I wasnt in a passageway anymore. The darkness was still there, but this time, there was a dim light. A hooded man stood in front of me, a hall of doors lay behind him. He was about 510, with a thinner frame, but standing tall and proud. I could not see his face, only the glow of his eyes.</p>
<p>Where am I?</p>
<p>One question at a time dear friend. You asked, did you not, and I quote Who am I? Well today is your lucky day.</p>
<p>He held his hand out to me. Lord help me, I took it. I could not tell you why I took it but what else was I to do. Maybe I was Luke, and he was my Obi-Wan, come to show me the force, the light, the truth.</p>
<p>Your answer lies before you. Youre very persona is contained within these doors. He winked. Take a peek if you dare.</p>
<p>It seemed too good to be true. But what was there to lose. </p>
<p>Its as simple as that?</p>
<p>He was smiling. As simple as that.</p>
<p>I walked to the first door, eyeing it suspiciously. There was a symbol with a subscript. The gold of it felt cold against the wooden door. Its Hebrew.</p>
<p>Aleph null to be precise. You are familiar with sets of infinity, Im sure.</p>
<p>The mans words had no impact. The doorknob felt so perfect. Click. Push. Creak.</p>
<p>I could not see the walls of the room but the object in front of me was obvious enough.</p>
<p>A mirror? It made no sense. My persona, a mirror? </p>
<p>He simply smiled and pointed to the next door. Maybe Aleph one.</p>
<p>I ran. Maybe the first one was just a joke, a teaser. I opened each one. They were all the same. Simply a mirror, and nothing else. My frustration was beginning to show.</p>
<p>Aleph fifty-one. You know, if you arent in such a rush, maybe you can stop to take a look at a few of these mirrors. Whats the worst that could happen? You might just see that handsome face again.</p>
<p>I could sense the sarcasm and glared at him. But maybe... I opened the next door, my face still crestfallen at the sight of another mirror. Yet I took the risk. I walked up to it, and gazed into it. It was me, but it wasnt. I was looking at a puny little boy in a singlet cross the finish line. My first cross country race. Horrible by any standard of judging, and even more painful. But at that moment I didnt care. I had finished the race.</p>
<p>I went to the next room. It was me, performing on stage for the first time as a guitarist. I was playing Brain Stew by Green Day. I was sweating and my lips were parched but with screams from the crowd made me forget all that. That song never sounded so good.</p>
<p>I went back a few doors to see what I had missed. My first Lego set. Holding my first teddy bear as we drove from New Mexico to New Jersey. Seeing my father after his heart attack. I was only five.</p>
<p>The hooded man stood outside the door. That one still hurts.</p>
<p>I nodded and followed him down the hallway. It didnt seem to end. That was before he took my hand and somehow we stood in front of a door which itself had no end. There was no doorknob, or it maybe it was simply beyond the vision of my meager, mortal eyes. Carved plainly into the wood was one symbol. Ώ.</p>
<p>The beginning. The end. Beyond this door lies the answer to every question you could have ever asked. Who you are lies a door away. He handed me the key. You must simply unlock it.</p>
<p>I stared at the key in hand and thought about all I saw in those mirrors. I handed him back the key. He was right. There were only two definite things in life. Everything else </p>
<p>Thank you, but no thank you. I would rather learn who I am on my own, through my own adventures, successes and mistakes. The mysteries of life, and the understanding that comes along with it, will have to wait until I am ready to unlock them on my own.</p>
<p>He smiled and began to walk away.</p>
<p>But wait who are you?</p>
<p>He started laughing as he opened a door. You havent figured it out yet? Well thats quite all right. You have your whole life to figure out who I am.</p>
<p>And just like that, he slipped away. By the time I caught up, the room was empty, and all that remained was a mirror.</p>
<p>bballmaster6480 I really like your essay. I feel like I can probably write one of those rhetorical analysis essays we do in English classes, but that might not do it justice. The essay is thought provoking, and my favorite part is where you wrote about some of your significant moments in life. It's very creative, and it's not the tongue-in-cheek "cheap-wit" kind of creativity either. Overall your essay is very... what's a word for it... introspective?</p>
<p>Well done.</p>
<p>edit: I hope I'm not over-reacting, I just had no idea how to do the 3rd prompt even though I liked the prompt, and it's very, very refreshing to see someone pull it off.</p>
<p>I loved everyone's essays. It's amazing how creative we can be when colleges stop giving us the same topics!
I wrote about essay 4 but the actual story wound up being 3 pages long single spaced, and had this very long story. If anyone actually feels like reading it, then I'll pm them or something.
In the meantime, here is my answer to the favorites question. I applied RD and I'll submit whether i get in when I find out. If only, if only...</p>
<p>Beware the Jaberwock, my son!
So too, I should step cautiously around
the fantasy and make-believe,
fore I like Alice, get sucked in:
check kings, believe impossible things
and then get rudely woken up to find it all a dream.</p>
<p>Or else, I should have shut The Fountainhead
whose pages paint a plot too cruel
to represent reality.
And then I flip on CNN and watch, distressed,
as Keating, Wynand, Toohey reveal themselves
in self-important men who all disguise their need for power.</p>
<p>Instead, I embrace both books (my favorites).
They represent myself, in my entirety.
The dreamer who will stand under the rain and spout off Dickinson and Marvell
simply because the sky demands it.
But at my back I always hear the clamor of reality.
It asks me to put away the fairy tales and look around,
roll up my sleeves, and fix the problems. </p>
<p>I shy away from no challenge, and shut no door;
I walk the line between controversy and results.
My head bops to the rhythm of the Dresden Dolls,
while the lime green highlighter (never yellow)
skims over important phrases that could relate Nietzsche to Darwin.
I am John Lockes blank slate, you see,
and my favorites never change,
but only multiply (a list that rivals the Sears Tower in length),
to mold me into the person that I become.</p>
<p>Yeah, its super long. I've already come to terms that I am going to get rejected from UChicago and already made the deposit for my 2nd choice school. And yeah I know this is super long, I just can't help it okay?</p>
<p>Essay Option 4: Improv</p>
<p>Professor Wilkins (Clears throat): So, just inquisitive, what are everyone’s thoughts on the English Reformation?
(Jake storms in looking flustered and takes a seat at the back of the class)
Professor Wilkins: I am assuming you got lost?
Jake: Yeah I accidentally made a left turn at the blue pole instead of
Prof. Wilkins (Interrupting): Don’t worry freshmen always get lost. I just hope you’re not majoring in geography!
(Rest of the class laughs heartily, obviously sucking up to Wilkins)
Wilkins (Smug): Now where were we? Ah, yes! How do you think England’s anti-clericalism combined with Henry VIII’s need for an heir contribute to the cataclysm of the English Reformation?
Jake (Panicked, anxious whisper to his fellow classmates): Wait, what’s going on? What’s a cataclysm? What’s he talking about?
(Girl in the very front raises her hand, Professor Wilkins points to her)
Cassandra: The new monarchies created centralization thus when Henry VIII separated from the Church, Britain’s already anti-clerical attitudes accepted the change.
Wilkins: Correct Cassandra!
Jake (Nervous and confused, still whispering): What?! I don’t remember this! Wh...what’s he talking about?
Classmate 2: You know page 394, paragraph 8, sentence 497.
Jake: You memorized the page numbers…a…an…and sentences?!
Wilkins: I think a little quiz is in order.
Jake (frantic, sweating, yell-whisper): We had a quiz? N…n…No one told me?! What’s it over? Help!!
Wilkins: The quiz is as follows: Write an essay on the difference between Thomas Cranmer and Thomas Cromwell and how they contributed to the English Reformation by helping establish one of the new monarchies of the 15th century. Oh, and make sure you use #2 pencils, and only #2 pencils.
(Lights dim on everyone but Wilkin’s desk; Jake goes up to Professor Wilkin’s desk)
Jake: Professor, I have a pencil, but it’s not #2. Does it have to be #2?
Prof. Wilkin: Yes, yes it does. You see #2 pencils are clearly not as good as #1 pencils but are obviously better than a #3 pencil. Actually, now that I think about it #1 and #2 pencils are acceptable. Just no #3 pencils.
Jake: Sir, what is my pencil? It doesn’t say…
(Prof. Wilkins examines the pencil, and conducts tests on it)
Prof. Wilkin: That is a #3 pencil. Unacceptable.
Jake: Professor Wilkins, surely I can borrow a #2 pencil from you!
Prof. Wilkins: Of course you can Jake. But first I need collateral.
Jake: Collateral?
Wilkins: Your shoe will be sufficient.
Jake: B…bu…but
Wilkins: Just give me the shoe.
(Jake hands over shoe and Wilkins magically appropriates pencil from behind his ear.)
Wilkins: There.
Jake: Okay, thanks.
(Jake walks back to his desk, lights out on Wilkins desk and light on Jake’s desk.)
Jake (Pause): What am I going to do? What am I going to do? I don’t know any of this stuff. It’s too hard! And why does everyone keep using words that I don’t understand?! I knew I should have gone to Simpleton College! And Allecto University cost my parents so much money! W…W…Wha…What are they gonna say when they find out I’m failing?!
(Jake’s parents walk into the small circle of light that surrounds his desk)
Jake: Mom, Dad, I can’t do this anymore. Allecto is so hard. I’m doing bad in all of my classes. I’ve barely made any new friends. I was peer pressured into joining a fraternity. A…And I’m taking a quiz and I d…don’t even know what it’s about!
Dad: Are you crazy? Do you know how much we’ve sacrificed for you to go here? Took a 2nd mortgage on the house for you!
Mom: To push a brand new car off of a cliff for your education. Do you know how much that is?!
Dad: And quitting? No one in our family ever quits. Ever!
Mom: Except for Sam, you know he had a problem and…
Dad: Yeah, okay, but just Sam! No one in our family quits.
Mom: Think of the example you are setting for your little sister. How are we going to tell her that you quit school because it was too hard. Huh? How do you think that will affect her?! Pretty soon she’ll want to quit 3rd grade just because you quit college! You are not quitting.
Dad: I don’t care if you spend the rest of your life here. You are staying at Allecto until you finish! Point is, you’re not quitting.
(Dad and Mother exit)
Jake: They wouldn’t even let me quit if I wanted to. (Sighs)
Jake (To the audience, seems to have calmed down): Well, at least there are worst things than failing college. (Beat) I think…? You know I’m pretty sure my friends from back home are having problems fitting in just like me. Freddie went to art school and Mark went to University of Chicago.
(Freddie-holding a canvas demonstrating pointillism-and Mark come on stage)
Jake: Hey Freddie, how’s art school?
Freddie: Fantastic, I made a painting … of you
(Gives Jake canvas)
Jake (Obviously confused): Thanks?
Freddie: My teacher says I’m going to be the next Seurat.
Jake: Oh that’s great. Ummm (Pointing to the painting) how is that me?
Freddie: You don’t see yourself in there?
Jake: N…not…no…not really
Freddie (obviously pointing to random locations on painting): Oh, well that’s your eyes, and your nose, and your mouth, and way over there are your ears.
Jake: I see it! I think…? (beat) So Mark, how’s it going for you?
Mark: Couldn't be better!
Jake: Hey I have a question, a small question…are any of you struggling or having any trouble at your new school?
Freddie: Actually, yeah I am. Sometimes, I even wonder if art school’s for me. I mean everyone there is so pretentious. Of course I’m better than all of them.
Jake (Thought suddenly occurs in Jake’s head): Wait! Mark you’re smart right?!
Mark: Well…
Jake: Now isn’t the time for modesty! Do you know any of this stuff?
Mark: Actually, I just took a test on Henry VIII yesterday.
Jake: Yessssssssssss! Help me out man.
Mark: Sorry buddy, but since I am a figment of your imagination... I won’t be able to help you.
Jake: Nooooooooooo!
Freddie: Hey Jake, I gotta go, I have a sculpture class I have to get to in like 5 minutes.
Jake: Okay. Bye Freddie.
Mark: You can do it Jake. You can ace this test. Just try and remember what you’ve learned so far.
Jake: I’ll try… Hey wait, are you guys going to be home for Thanksgiving break?
(Mark and Freddie shoot him a look)
Jake: Oh, right…you guys aren’t real. Imagination. Right. Okay. Bye!
(Mark and Freddie exit)
Jake: What nice friends. Except that they’re imaginary. Well, not really. Sort of? (Looks at wristwatch) Help! Ten more minutes left. What am I going to do? What am I going to do?!
Jake: Okay, okay… Thomas Cranmer, Cranmer...Cranberries? Yes! He discovered cranberries, he must have. Okay. Now Cromwell, Cromwell was his helper.
Jake: Thomas Cranmer reformed the fruit system in England by discovering cranberries. His friend, Thomas Cromwell helped.
(Lights go up)
Professor Wilkins (Clears throat): Time’s up!
(Students file in a straight line handing Prof. Wilkins their papers)
(Prof. Wilkins collects unusually large stacks of papers from the students)
Prof. Wilkins: Cassandra 12 pages? Don’t make your papers too long. I have a life too you know.
(Cassandra and Prof. Wilkins laugh)
Prof. Wilkins: Hahahahaha. Oh who am I kidding I don’t have a life.
(Jake is last in line, all students should have walked off stage now)
Prof. Wilkins: Jake, I’d like to see you after class.
Jake (Fake smile): Yes?
Wilkins: Are you aware that your essay consists of two sentences. One of which is a sentence fragment.
Jake: Ummm, yes about the 2 sentences, no about the sentence fragment.
Prof. Wilkins: Did you peruse your lesson at all?
Jake: Ummmm...
Prof. Wilkins: Did you study?
Jake: Oh, well in that case, no.
Prof. Wilkins: Care to give an erudite excuse?
Jake (Talking very fast): Well, yesterday...i...it was like the Pythagorean Theorem. It just kept getting worse and worse. It started with A squared. That was when my roommate, who hilariously is named Aaron, two As. Get it? Hehe. Well anyways, he asked me if I wanted to go to a birthday party with him. And so I said, “Yeah sure man”. And then we went there, but it turns out it really wasn’t a birthday party. It was Kappa Zeta Phi Alpha Chi Omega’s induction ceremony, and that was the B squared of the equation. Although Kappa Zeta Phi Alpha Chi Omega does have four P’s, if you stack two P’s on top of each other that makes a B, so 4 Ps ,we can just pretend they’re multiplied, equals b squared. But then the really bad part was when I fell asleep and was late to class. I guess that’s the C squared. Well, it might be if I get a C on this quiz
Prof. Wilkins: Spare me the life story.
Jake: But you told me t…
Prof. Wilkins: When I was at Princeton Law School…
Jake: Sir, I thought Princeton Law School doesn’t exsi…
Wilkins: I had trouble fitting in myself, but I learned to... how I shall say it in words you can understand… (Pause) “Get it together”. Are you willing to “Get it together”?
Jake: Yeah, I guess.
Wilkins: That’s not how a person says yes!! Repeat after me: "And yes I said yes I will Yes"
Jake (Half-heartedly): And yes I said yes I will Yes?
Wilkins: Say it like you mean it boy!
Jake (Passionately): And yes I said yes I will yes!
Wilkins: You can do it.
Jake: I can!
(Jake begins to walk off stage, and then realizes he only has one shoe on)
Jake: You have my shoe.
Wilkins: My pencil please?
(Jake and Wilkins exchange)
Jake: Thanks.
(Jake begins to walk off stage again)
Wilkins: Don’t forget to read the 300 pages from Lesson 30 for tomorrow!
Jake: W…Wha…What?
Wilkins: Just kidding, you only have to read 100.
Jake: Oh… ummmm, okay. I’ll get started…right now.
Wilkins: To the library my boy!
Jake: Yes! To the library I will go!
(Jake walks off stage)</p>
<p>I chose prompt 4. I'm not sure about the formatting, since i wrote a screenplay, but heres mine. (A little long, but it's exactly 999 words, which happened by accident, but i think is cool)</p>
<p>EXT- HIGHWAY- LATE AFTERNOON
Establishing Shot: Film opens with a view from inside a car, looking at the outside world. Trees and highway signs are seen rushing by in a blur. The camera moves behind the car and backs away, revealing a dusty, broken down, green 1979 Pontiac Firebird driving on the highway with no cars nearby. After a few moments the camera stops on a sign that reads Fairfield, Louisiana, 2 Miles- Gas and Food available
The camera cuts back into the car and the driver is revealed. ANTONIO MONTALBON, 26, stares straight ahead, focusing on the road without blinking. He is wearing heavily faded dark blue jeans, a white button up tee shirt, and his hair is cut neatly short, but is a little unkempt, and is sticking up in a few places. He has tan brown skin, and looks very Latin, maybe from Mexico or Brazil. His voice is deep and reserved, with a slight hint at a Spanish accent. The speedometer on the car reads fifty MPH.</p>
<p>(V.O.) ANTONIO MONTALBON
My name is Antonio Montalbon. In a few months, youll come to know more and more about me. By the end of this whole mess, Ill be known as the most dangerous man in American history. Of course, I didnt know how far things would go, but I think that even then, I knew that I was going to end up hurting a lot of people. [pauses]
People. [pauses] Theyre going to talk about me. Theyll say he had severe mental issues
I dont. Theyll say He was abused
I was, but not in that priest or creepy uncle kind of way. Theyll say Hes a bad man [pauses] Im not sure.</p>
<p>EXT- THRU-WAY DINER- LATE AFTERNOON
The car drives up to a diner. Antonio parks and gets out. He reaches into his back seat, grabbing a few folders and papers. The diner is at the top of a hill, and Antonio takes a moment to look at the scene. The setting sun has cast an auburn glow on top of the trees underneath the hill. It has a very serene feeling. Antonio then walks to the diner entrance. It has two doors at the entrance, one on the left and one on the right. The left one says The Thru-Way Diner, and the right one says Home of the best ribs in Louisiana.</p>
<p>INT- THRU-WAY DINER- LATE AFTERNOON
The diner looks like a diner from the late 1950s. There is a wood-grain Jukebox in the corner, playing old blues songs, and some black and white pictures of New Orleans musicians. Other than a waitress, and the cook who are sitting at the counter, the entire place is empty. The waitress LAURA, 21, is talking to the cook. She has a small town beauty look to her, which parallels a sense of dark sadness she gives off. Her voice is soft, and sensuous, and she has a noticeable Louisiana accent. She sees Antonio walk in and steps up to him. </p>
<p>LAURA
Were kind of empty right now, so you can sit wherever y like.</p>
<p>Antonio nods to her and chooses a booth with a window. Laura puts on her waitress apron and walks over.</p>
<p>LAURA
So, what can I get ya?
ANTONIO
Can I have the ribs and a Corona?
LAURA
Sure, but Im going to need to see I.D. for the beer.
ANTONIO
I dont have any.
LAURA
You dont have a drivers license?
ANTONIO
No.
LAURA
Oh, ok. Ill be right back with the ribs then. </p>
<p>Laura walks away, and Antonio opens his folder. Among the things seen in the folders are the Periodic Table of Elements, papers covered in math and chemical equations, and a few well worn number two pencils. Antonio begins writing notes on the papers, and a few minutes pass. Laura then brings him his food and a Corona.</p>
<p>LAURA
I changed my mind, as long as you promise youre over 21.
ANTONIO
I am. Thank you.
LAURA
Youre welcome</p>
<p>Laura pauses for a moment, expecting him to say more. He does not and she walks away. She comes back when he has finished eating. </p>
<p>LAURA
Y mind if I sit down?
ANTONIO
Sure.</p>
<p>She sits down nervously.</p>
<p>LAURA
So, what do you do?
ANTONIO
I used to wash dishes in a few restaurants, and bus tables, but now Im trying to create a chemical that turns a person into a zombie.
LAURA
(Amused)
Like in those old movies?
ANTONIO
No, Im serious.
LAURA
Never mind, keep it to yourself then. You ever been to college?
ANTONIO
I spent a semester at the University of Chicago. I had to leave because I couldnt pay for it. </p>
<p>Laura notices a tattoo on Antonios arm that says Jeong</p>
<p>LAURA
Whats Jeong?
ANTONIO
Its a Japanese thing.
LAURA
Wow, great explanation. Care to explain a little more?
ANTONIO
Well its hard to explain. It symbolizes a set of universal connections between people in a group. Its almost like love, but not just traditional love , but also between friends, family, countrymen, anyone who shares a relationship with another person really.
LAURA
Thats incredibly romantic
ANTONIO
Sometimes. But theres a negative side to Jeong. Those who arent in the group experiencing Jeong are shunned by the people inside it. It becomes nearly impossible for anyone outside Jeong to become part of it.
LAURA
So if theres a person whos not in Jeong, then theyll always be stuck as an outsider?
ANTONIO
Trapped.
LAURA
Thats a bad place to be.
ANTONIO
It is.</p>
<p>Laura pauses and looks at Antonio like she understands something about him. There is a moment of connection. Antonio then looks down and goes back to work. </p>
<p>LAURA
Ill let you get back to what you were doing. But after I get off work, you wanna get a drink?</p>
<p>Laura waits a moment for his answer, and he doesnt respond. She walks away, insulted. </p>
<p>ANTONIO
And yes I said yes I will yes.</p>
<p>This was for the "Share your favorite book, movie, song, etc." essay lol</p>
<p>It's DEFINITELY a hit or miss..</p>
<p>
[quote]
I love my favorite personification. It is very pretty, so let me share it with you! It’s not an elaborate story or an arcane poem as you might expect, since it’s just a picture of a plain white owl with a few letters imposed at the bottom. With the background covered up, it begins and ends with the portrait of this magnificent creature, as if someone had taken a mug shot of it for flying under the influence. But examine the picture more carefully and you will catch a glimpse of its beautiful message, which is etched with the effortlessness and subtlety of a good lolcat. </p>
<p>The owl’s curious stance, a slight tilt of the head with a little neck rotation, implies the basic premise of his questioning nature. The attitude and spunk behind the positioning of his upper torso conveys an unashamed defiance of incompetent authority. The piercing eyes, wide open in false shock and disbelief, shrewdly mocks the object of his attention. Clearly, something extraordinarily foolish had been said to deserve such sardonic derision, such sharp sarcasm that the owl’s hooked beak seems to be digging into its victim’s every word.</p>
<pre><code>This pictorial personification’s usefulness in a variety of situations, and a variety of Internet message boards, is a testament to its success at depicting profound elements of human personality. The owl embodies the thinking-man’s natural reaction to idiocy, whereby he crushes ridiculous or obvious statements with such cynicism that it never arises again. Harsh words, maybe, but relating to the owl is a universal experience. Everyone feels the need, at one time or another, to lash out so viciously that the speaker of fools’ words is too embarrassed to repeat them. Only then can human progress proceed.
</code></pre>
<p>My feathered friend can swoop down to banish absurdity and triteness with a single penetrating glance, but my esoteric words cannot even begin to do it justice. Behind all of its intricate meanings and philosophical interpretations, the splendor of this commonly available picture lies in the gut feeling that it invokes. Some say that a picture is worth a thousand words, but this one can be summed up succinctly in only two: “O RLY?”
[/quote]
</p>
<p>hey, what do you think?
“Life consists not in holding good cards, but in playing those you hold well”</p>
<p>My grandfather is a living example of Josh Billings’ words. Every time I hear his story I cannot stop the tears from running down my face. He was born into a large polygamous family, and lost his father at the tender age of twelve. His father had three wives, and therefore lots of children.
When his father died, each wife had to tend for her own children, as they could not survive on the meagre inheritance they each received. His mother had to resort to selling animal hide and would travel across Nigeria doing just that; therefore leaving his siblings and him home alone to tend for themselves. They were left vulnerable to the other wives in the home that led a life of steady competition. They grew up quickly as a result of this, although under constant oppression.
My grandfather fuelled his determination into his studies though, and won a scholarship to study at the most prestigious King's College Lagos. His love for mathematics developed, and he found himself years ahead of his classmates in this subject. He became a math tutor for his mates and would even give lessons to his sister who was two academic years ahead of him! He said to me: "I did so much work on circles that, at the end of the year, I could draw a perfect circle with my hand".
All of this time though, their upkeep still remained a problem, and his mother discovered that her constant trips away from home seemed almost an act of negligence. She wanted to be there to bring them up, and so came back home. Their situation got worse financially as a result of this, and she would even resort to selling her own clothes to pay their school fees. He remembers vividly a time when she brought down the curtains in her room, and used the cloth to make them clothes for christmas. He wore it with pride though; it was the love he said that counted.
When he passed his ‘A level’ results in flying colours, the Nigerian Government recognised his potential, and awarded him a scholarship to study at the then University of London, now Imperial College London. Times were still hard for him this time he told me; he would wear only two pairs of trousers for almost one year. He went on to attain a PhD in chemical engineering and came back home after nine years of intense study. He also attained a Masters in Latin, one of his personal favourites, in which he excelled all of the time. When he came back home, he got a job with the Nigerian Civil Service, and in a period of thirty years served in almost sixteen ministries. His career culminated in his receipt of a National Honours award in Nigeria, the most prestigious national awards. This was in recognition of his dedication, and the immense amount of change he brought about in the ministries he served in. Listening to the tribute being recited in his honour, I knew then that “Life consists not in holding good cards, but in playing those you hold well”. My grandfather was not “born with a silver spoon” he was not born into a world of opportunity. Many failed where he excelled. He played his cards right.</p>
<p>I was accepted to Chicago RD. I made up my own essay question:</p>
<p>It is believed that Soren Kierkegaard once said, To dare is to lose ones footing momentarily. Not to dare is to lose oneself. Write about an experience in which you took a stand and failed, but do not regret any moment of it.</p>
<p>Michele, how do you feel about the actions of the United States in Iraq?
I paused. I answered the question; I told him what I thought he wanted to hear.
Uh yeah, I believe our actions are a positive influence on Iraq because our government is bringing democracy to an otherwise tyrannical nation.
Mr. ONeils countenance became inquisitive as he asked,
Are you sure thats what you think?
No, thats not what I think, I said.
I told Mr. ONeil how I truly felt about the war and amazingly he smiled with approval. From then on, I answered every question truthfully without worrying about appeasing him. I passed my Eagle Scout Board of Review.
The catalysts for my lie were my previous experiences with Mr. ONeil. Hed say Your rank patch is not centered on your left breast pocket, hed point out that I neglected to follow the unknown brass on brass rule of the scout belt, or that I was wearing the wrong type of scout socks with my pants. After he first read my Eagle project proposal he said, Youre missing some commas. I expected him to sign my proposal, trusting that I would amend it later, but, much to my chagrin, he told me to e-mail him to schedule a new meeting date. Mr. ONeil had many plays in his game of Gotcha, and I thought a lie could outplay him.<br>
Yet despite this, Mr. ONeil, a needlessly nitpicky, spit and polish, son of a *****, taught me a very important lesson. Mr. O'Neil tested my character and taught me to stay true to myself and articulate my thoughts, even when it doesnt seem like it will lead me to success, or make things easier.
This lesson came to life during the weeks preceding AP exams my junior year. Unlike my Honors and AP teachers, my Spanish IV teacher wanted the class to focus on her tests and her assignments to the detriment of studying for AP exams.
The class became uneasy as we faced test after test. When asked if she could hold off on additional work, she said, No. I cannot just stop assigning work because of some exams. I dont have to. I was utterly astonished; she quashed a class-wide concern.
I chose to address her in front of the entire class. I do not remember exactly what I said, as I was overcome by emotion, but I told her she was not putting herself in our shoes. That as a part of her job as a high school teacher she should recognize our limits and adjust accordingly. I even tried to formalize my complaint with my guidance counselor, but no action was taken against her, and my rudeness yielded me a lunch detention.
I could have expressed myself more convincingly, but I am proud for expressing myself and not staying quiet in dissatisfaction. Because of Mr. ONeil I understand that having the freedom of thought necessitates the freedom of speaking what is on ones mind: else the thought is useless, else we fail ourselves. I dont fear causing discontent because daring to stand up for my convictions is worth any possible outcome, even loosing my footing. I no longer seek approval. I say what I think because I feel an obligation to myself.</p>
<p>What do you all think of this essay? It seems pretty bland compared to the others I've read in this thread...though I did get in.</p>
<p>I was accepted EA, and chose Option 5. It's a play on the old "the mind that does not stick" topic.</p>
<p>And, now, a variation on a theme: [Chinese symbols that likely won't show up on CC] means “the mind that does stick… sometimes.”</p>
<p>I drum my fingers on the desk, tapping out a horribly rushed “Washington Post March.” When I’m anxious, I tap. A chorus of “nous-nous-nous-nous-nous” accompanies the neurotic drumming; what else can I do but idiotically repeat that one syllable over and over and over, until the glaring error on my homework corrects itself?</p>
<p>The repetition corrodes my brain until I no longer recognize the train of nouses, but instead begin to think about habituation. “I’ve said ‘nous’ so much, with no results, that my brain is no longer reacting to the stimulus, and… oh, right, habituation, I have to do biology and—Habitat for Humanity—I need to get the forms for that.”</p>
<p>The ugly black error suddenly pounces from the paper, scattering my wonderfully disjointed thoughts. No longer protected by a short attention span, I’m left with only repulsion—not towards the French language, which has treated me surprisingly well throughout the years— but towards myself. I’m the traitor, not *la langue fran</p>
<p>@matrix:It's not bad but it's not really great either(same with a lot of essays in this thread). The biggest problem I would say you have with it is that I can't read that essay and see who you are; I could easily confuse you with anyone else who has posted essays because it isn't very unique at all. This is of course my idea of what a great essay should be but someone else's may be very different. When I get my decision I will post mine and you can tear it apart lol. </p>
<p>You got in though, so congrats, obviously Chicago saw something in your essays or other accomplishments.</p>
<p>I chose option four too. I was waitlisted. My essay's kind of weird though. It's sort of a parody of Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead, in journal form, from Rosencrantz's view, with lots of anachronisms. </p>
<p>Rosencrantz: Dear Diary</p>
<p>Day 1
I forgot my name.</p>
<p>Day 2
Read in magazine that Sudoku very good for memory. Walked to fish market on advice of court jester but did not find any Sudoku books for some reason. Very unfortunate. Must remember name for tax returns. </p>
<p>Day 4
The name Rosencrantz sounds rather familiar. Wonder if it’s mine.</p>
<p>Day 6
It is mine! In other news, I set a record of 92 heads tossing coins. Poor Guildenstern, he looked peeved. </p>
<p>Day 7
Am confused. Guildenstern pushed me away when I tried to kiss him good night. Was only trying to comfort him after he lost so much money! Do not understand what other connotations a kiss could possibly have. </p>
<p>Day 8
Guil told me that it is rather gross to be slobbered upon by his friend. Well, at least still friends. </p>
<p>Day 12
Met very sorry looking group of tragedians. Clever Guil trapped the Player into a bet, and Player offered cross-dressing boy as payment. Am not too into the whole cross-dressing thing, so declined. </p>
<p>Day 19
Discussed with Guildenstern what might be afflicting Hamlet. Was a good discussion, that is, until Guil suggested that he be Hamlet, while I be myself. Asked him how I can be myself when I am already myself. He bellowed at me, “We are discussing Hamlet here!” Told him that I detested his disgusting arrogance and now he is nice and quiet like he should be. Didn’t even know I knew such big words.</p>
<p>Day 23
Gave speech on pros and cons of being dead in a box until Guildenstern held up hammer. Have had uncontrollable fear of hammers since the time I dropped one on my toe.</p>
<p>Day 24
Watched exhibition by the tragedians. Am not sure if acting out Claudius murdering the old king in front of King Claudius is the best idea, but am sure the Player has his reasons.</p>
<p>Day 26
Nothing going on. Cannot find my coins. Would very much like to see ventriloquist show, or Monty Python movie. </p>
<p>Day 27
Went bathing with the entire town at the communal bath. So pleasant to be clean. </p>
<p>Day 28
Asked Guil how my hair looked, and he said he thought me adorable in the pet marmoset way. Never mind the fact that he resembles an ostrich! Nevertheless, I asked King Claudius for a marmoset in exchange for kissing and massaging his feet for five long hours every day. So not worth it. His liver spots are horrible. Plus, must do most silly set of bows whenever I enter and exit those two doors to his room. </p>
<p>Day 30
Good: Finally got to have some deep conversations with Guildenstern while pretending to make a “trap.”
Bad: Hamlet walked into the middle of our bonding time with a stinking dead body.
Ugly: Got called a sponge. The insult!</p>
<p>Day 31
Have been contemplating what to do to break up the monotony of Guildenstern’s life. Well, really mine, but same thing since apparently no one can tell us apart, including me. Distractions most vexing. Once when a shoe fell on my head, and another time by an eggplant.</p>
<p>Day 32
I have had enough of these confounded distractions!</p>
<p>Day 35
So my plan to throw Guildenstern down a flight of stairs did not exactly excite him, but it was the best I could do. He was not interested in bathing and disliked my suggestion to have a paper airplane making contest. </p>
<p>Day 37
Guildenstern is as mad as hell. All I can say is that I am very appreciative that he has not yet poisoned my dinner, or stolen my conditioner. </p>
<p>Day 38
Leaving for England tomorrow on a boat. King Claudius no longer interested in calling me to his chambers and then forgetting that I’m there. Either way, at least I would not have to touch his ghastly feet again.
Guildenstern giving me silent treatment. Seriously, why does everyone ignore me?</p>
<p>Day 39
On boat. Frightfully dark. Usually would run to Guil and ask for reassuring story but am determined I will not give in and talk to him first. Will not, will not. Will not. </p>
<p>Day 40
Why is it so bloody dark still?</p>
<p>Day 41
Gave in and apologized to Guildenstern for causing him a concussion. Told him I am sure Tylenol will cure it for Tylenol cures everything. Guil did not appreciate my advice at all. Did not even tell a story. </p>
<p>Day 42
Boat Worry Syndrome, or BWS, has taken Guildenstern. Tried to make him happy by letting him win my old coin trick. If that’s not the cure, what is?</p>
<p>Day 43
Guil scared the living daylights out of me when he asked for a letter I did not have. How can I give him a letter that I don’t have? Turns out he had the letter the whole time. If he does not stop doing this, I shall be the one with BWS, and yes I said yes I will Yes.</p>
<p>Day 44
Yes indeed. With BWS.</p>
<p>Day 45
Recovered enough to read the letter. The king demanded Hamlet to be removed of his head.
This may not be good.</p>
<p>Day 46
Hamlet ran off with pirates. Am sure pirate clothes will not flatter him, and said so. Guil must be having a bad day, for he replied that I must have the brain of a peacock to think up such a remark. Am feeling bitter. Would very much like to leave court life and study neuroscience at the University of Chicago if I had the chance and if it actually existed. I mean, would even settle for Northwestern if need be. </p>
<p>Day 48
That lazy good-for-nothing loafer Hamlet! How unfair it is that he will get an entire play in his name when he rewrote the letter to have us beheaded instead? </p>
<p>Day 50
Comforted Guil by telling him that at least we won’t die by electric chair, for there is nothing worse than dying by electric chair.
Still this sucks.</p>
<p>Not going to post my essay, but my advice to next year's applicants is DON'T CHOOSE OPTION #5. They don't like it and not choosing their 4 manufactured prompts shows lack of interest or laziness. I'm lucky enough I wasn't waitlisted.</p>
<p>I don't think that's necessarily true. If you post a common app essay or something dull, then of course it's not going to be received well. However, if your essay topic is creative and thought-provoking, I don't see why it would be a problem.</p>
<p>I agree with both of you(not that I'm an authority, mind you)</p>
<p>I chose a predetermined prompt because I think that unless you have a really creative idea I think it's silly to essentially tell the school that you can't express yourself within four extremely broad prompts. </p>
<p>Some students that I've read on here did a good job with their own prompts, but the majority, it seems to me, are really bland and do not warrant creating their own prompt. </p>
<p>I'm convinced that, if you have the stats of course, the essay doesn't matter much; there's several examples on here of people who wrote painfully average essays(some even bad) yet still got accepted. It's when you don't necessarily have excellent stats to fall back on(like me) when you have to wow them with a well written essay.</p>
<p>Just my $.02 feel free to completely disagree.</p>
<p>I did choose option #5, use my common essay, and got in to Uchig after all. Perhaps I am just an anomaly.</p>
<p>Okay, here's my essay about the table. Eventually I'm just going to print this entire thread and read all the essays, just for kicks.</p>
<p>My tired fingers stop their chatter. My hands find rest from the keyboard on the table. Ahh, so woody and solid! My table and I go way back...</p>
<p>I could barely control my car. I was zooming 110 miles per hour down a local highway. I've never gone so fast in my life, but my life was worth risking. The once-in-a-lifetime giant table sale was going on right now, and I couldn't miss it. I was the first person there! Perfect! Now, to find the perfect table for my room...</p>
<p>As soon as I walked through the door of the furniture store, I was greeted by a salesman. "Hi!" he said. "Are you here for the... oh, of course you are! I can help you find the table just for you!"</p>
<p>"Oh, that's fine, Mr. Salesman, I just want to..."</p>
<p>"Nonsense! Right this way, young man. I'll show you exactly what you're looking for. Do you have a certain table in mind as you were coming here?"</p>
<p>"Well, there are certainly a lot of choices here!"</p>
<p>"Yes! We are proud to display every table imaginable. Purple tables, heart-shaped tables, flying tables! You name them, we provide them. That's our policy!"</p>
<p>"Oh, wonderful. Okay, so I was thinking about having a nice, brown table..." </p>
<p>"Our latest model is silver, and I know that silver suits every teenager like you nowadays. This one has a drawer specifically for new music devices..."</p>
<p>"But I already have a radio at home..."</p>
<p>"Well, if that doesn't suit you, how about this lovely blue lounge desk, which comes with..."</p>
<p>"Um, excuse me, but could you just please show me the plain tables?"</p>
<p>"Plain! Why would you want... Oh, never mind! Yes, the plain tables. Come this way."</p>
<p>I passed through all the silver tables, all the flying tables, all the ones with computers attached to them. At the very end of the store I came across it. It was brown, rectangular, and plain. It was essentially a plank with legs and a few drawers on the sides. It was completely unadorned. It was perfect.</p>
<p>"I'll take this one!"</p>
<p>I was excited when I went back home. I listened to the Oldies on the radio while I cleaned up my room and made my table feel right at home.</p>
<p>My table is simplest and best. In this day and age, I often feel that I need a place where I can just sit down, free of distractions and worry, and think. That place is my table, my desk. The only things I ever allow on my desk are a piece of paper and a pencil. My table needs to be free of energy from outside sources; it must contain only my ideas. </p>
<p>Whom do I invite to my table? Those I conjure up from my imagination. I like to invite Catullus, the Roman poet, over for a cup of coffee. Erm... Catullus, could you please help me with this translation: "Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris"? After that we usually talk about whatever's on our minds, whether it's politics or war or poetry. Other days I like to invite chess grandmasters, like Nimzovitch, Euwe, and Capablanca over for a chess party, where I'd set up a chess position from one of my games and go over it with them, just to know what it'd be like to work with grandmasters. Or I might invite this year's AP Calculus students over for a philosophical talk about the integral. Whatever the case may be, those who spend time at my table appreciate my ideas and I appreciate their ideas. </p>
<p>Or otherwise I spend my time alone with my thoughts. My table then becomes a forum for my own ideas. "If I have a square, what's the probability that a point on the square will be closer to the edge than it will be to the middle?" Those days, the table becomes cluttered with paper, equations, and mistakes.</p>
<p>My table is alive, but not in the man-eating manner. When I really think about it, my desk is where my thoughts have been molded like dough, and where many of my current beliefs have originated. I don't believe that this could happen with my ideas spilled out on a metallic table. There is something in the aura of the classic table that draws me. During the course of the rest of my life, many things will change all around me, but I hope the brown tables stay.</p>