<p>Aspen - </p>
<p>You need more than 6 pages of essays? Jeesh. Learn to write for yourself...</p>
<p>Here is one of my essays to UChicago; it is a spin-off on the notorious mustard jar essay. I think that perhaps I was maybe a little too daring when I wrote it, but it worked for me. </p>
<p>Topic: Write an essay somehow inspired by a gigantic container of peanut butter, a huge jar of mayonnaise, or perhaps, even, a foot and a half tall jar of mustard . . .? (Ive decided to take a little risk and have fun.) </p>
<p>Warning: This is a true story. </p>
<p>My mother sits happily in her sparse bedroom: a bed, a desk, a chair, a computer, and two totes. She smiles, taking pride in the fact that she can move all her belongings out of the house in five minutes -- if need be. How did she assume this Gandhi-esque simplicity? Could it possibly be from living with another member of my family? (Since I want to keep my allowance, I wont name names . . . .) And what do two totes have to do with this anyway?</p>
<p>The pantry is stuffed. Ten bottles of never-opened Kraft Blue Cheese-flavored salad dressing lie, coated with dust, on a shelf. Across from them are one-hundred-and- seven shiny no-brand tuna cans; one can guess whats for dinner. (At least the five cats are happy.) Seventy-six bottles of his favorite Paradise Blend mystery juice take over the bottom shelves, spilling onto the floor; and, at such an unbeatable price, he had to buy the juice with the floaties that the rest of us wont touch. And what are we possibly going to do with the fourteen packages of pasta without any sauce?</p>
<p>He cant say no. If its on sale, he buys it, calling for the children (the work crew) to lug the groceries inside . . . . He cant say no when his relatives want to bequeath to him their belongings, hence, we have a basement full of totes containing Great Aunt Lauras treasured pea-green china. (And who is Great Aunt Laura anyway?) And we still have Grandmas eighteen-pound jar of lentils, given to him upon her death in 92. He cant bear the thought of throwing them away, and we cant bear the thought of eating them . . . . He cant say no when his friend, a professor, needs a place to store 806+ boxes of notes -- our basement . . . . He cant say no to my brothers and sisters pleas for a pet, only to bring home four turtles, seven parakeets, four hermit crabs, three rabbits, two dogs, forty-nine guppies, and a hampster. And the mice take seriously his command to go forth and multiply. My brother, owner of the mice, has gone into the breeding business. Its a good investment, since the Hyde Park Pet Store pays $1/mouse. And, with $1,000 already spent on banana chips and pine bedding, he has grossed $42.</p>
<p>But how did all of this come to happen? Well, maybe its genetic . . . .</p>
<pre><code>Perhaps he gets his strange habits from my Grandpa. At the ripe old age of 94, Grandpa is a lover of stuff. While he does not have a pantry of his own, Grandpa does have a closet, which houses forty-two pairs of white tennis shoes, just in case. And he seems always to have mystery packages from Haband! arriving in the mail, along with a mound of identical khakis that keeps on growing. Grandpa also just cant get enough of knickknacks; although Buck and Chuck, the Dueling Banjo Chipmunks, are no longer able to bob up and down to country music, they still share a table with Big Mouth Billy Bass, who wags his fins and wishes everyone who passes a Merry Christmas.
My sister Eliza seems to be following in their footsteps, carrying on the grand family tradition. She has collections of her own, her favorite being thirteen angels, which are quickly consuming her bedroom. Not to mention the eight-foot tall angel from the antique store. I had a bad feeling when, perusing the store with my mom, I saw a Sold sign taped to it; he had been there the day before. And insurance covers Elizas asthma inhalers, sent once a month for the past ten years. It is sheer luck if she can slit open the door to her wardrobe a crack and grab one without the other one-hundred-nineteen spilling out. We were joking about giving them out as treats this Halloween; wed have leftovers, even if we still lived on Harper Avenue.
</code></pre>
<p>But perhaps the collections and mounds of stuff arent really so bad. They all add to the flavor of the house, and they might come in handy some day. Even the eight-foot angel. After all, it has ten light bulbs sticking out of its head.</p>
<p>Katharos... sweet essay. Your family hoardes stuff like my mom throws stuff away.</p>
<p>I already wrote my own essay. GEEZ. If you don't have something nice to say, then don't say anything at all. ...and don't get cocky and assume things.</p>
<p>i've realized that my favorite essays are the ones that are just "different". i like the ones that are entirely conversations, ones that are poems, the one that had the newspaper format, and I liked deciding's one too.</p>
<p>Hey, this is my first post, just wanted to run this essay by you guys. I spent about 90 min on this, and I was wondering whether it was a step in the right direction. </p>
<h2>Some great essays in this thread btw.</h2>
<pre><code> Renaissance of the Insignificant
</code></pre>
<p>The Lakota people call it the womb.</p>
<pre><code>My eyes were shut tight, but it wouldnt have mattered if they were wide open. The silence was broken by the hiss of steam as the smoldering stones were showered with water. I could hear gags and gasps for air from those around me as the steam began to grow more dense. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as the heat enveloped me. Saturated with sweat and water, I could no longer breathe. I was on the verge of passing out; the roar of the drums seemed to fade into the background. The next thing I knew, a moment of utter lucidity, and a release.
I could sense the quantum world and the vastness of the cosmos for a fleeting moment. Then perspective set in, and a feeling of absolute triviality overwhelmed me.
</code></pre>
<p>A renaissance of the insignificant. Paradoxically bound by our freedoms of thought and perception; once the revelation is uncovered, forced to muse endlessly on the inescapable, ephemeral nature of existence.
A step back and a great weight off my shoulders. A beauty to this futility, for what consequence do any of my choices ultimately hold? There exists no burden.
A freedom like no other. Again, a moment of lucidity, and I began to hear the beat of the drums drone out the intensity of my thoughts. The vale of the tent was thrown back and the soft starlight poured through.
I cannot remember ever feeling as grateful for the wafting night breeze as I was at that moment. It is ironic, for thoughts on vertigo-inducing infinity had rushed through my mind just minutes earlier, and now, it was just the infinitesimally brief moment of satisfaction that truly mattered.
The next thing I knew, I had a peace pipe placed in my hands. I was, to say the least, a bit surprised. I had always held the belief that the Indian peace pipes were merely a myth conjured by racist stereotypes. And yet, lo and behold, here it was. I had never smoked before, nor had I ever had even the slightest temptation to do so. However, after such a ceremony, I felt compelled to honor them by smoking from the pipe. Lips pursed on the pipe, I took a deep breath in. I was pleasantly surprised; the tobacco was sweet, woody and had a very nice aftertaste.
It felt surreal as we stood out in the clear night. Not a single word was uttered. There is an untold ecstasy only attainable through pain (and I dont mean in the sadomasochistic way). There is a point at which your body cannot endure the pain and the connection between the mind and body is sundered. It is a different state of existence. I cannot profess to know exactly what experience each individual undergoes at that time, but I am sure, through the expressions that I saw that night, that each is a deeply personal and profound one.</p>
<p>I'm not sure if this essay was sent to Uchicago or Upenn, but i feel that it is one of my stronger essays. I actually won a statewide competition with it- go figure.</p>
<p>“Junior- is this Terrence?” A man asked. “Yeah, who is this?” I replied. I’m your…”<br>
My mother yelled into the living room from the kitchen as she cooked fried chicken. “Who is it Terry?” “I don’t know- some guy.” My mother paced her way into the room, drying her hands with the cloth that hung over her shoulder whenever she cooked, then she snatched the phone away from me. My mother’s hand was on her hip and the dimple creased next to her lip; she had an attitude. She turned to the wall as she mumbled, then slammed the phone. She rushed back to her burning chicken in the kitchen. I sat on the love seat for a few minutes, my legs still unable to touch the ground. What had that man said to my mother? “Terry- come in here.”<br>
I walked into the kitchen as my mother placed my plate on the table. “That was your father; he said he’ll be coming over.” She rolled her eyes and turned back to the stove, her dimple creased next to her lip as she splashed more chicken into the grease.
I grabbed my dinner plate from the table and rushed upstairs to my room. I couldn’t help but wonder who this man was. I wondered if he was tall? I wondered if he was funny? Smart? Rich? Aroused by anticipation, I could hardly blink, let alone walk in a straight line. After two knocks at the door the next morning in October 1994, I flew through the air like my two dogs to see who it was. No one, just the mailman. Until finally that evening, my father knocked. I tripped down the stairs for the second time and opened the door. A tall black guy with a green turtle neck sweater looked down at me.<br>
“Hey Junior, its been a while” he said, as I walked cautiously out onto the porch. My mother appeared in the doorway with her dimple lined as she leaned against the woodwork, arms crossed. “It’s about time you came to see him,” she said, turning around and scooting away in her pink flip-flops.<br>
“So little man, it’s been a long time since I seen you.”<br>
I couldn’t remember seeing him before, but I didn’t say anything. “How you been ‘doin’ in school?” He asked as he watched my mother scoot away. “Good” I replied.
It was a strange feeling talking to a person that my mother always creased her lip at, whenever someone mentioned his name. Although I had never met him, I was sure that he was a lying bum whom I was supposed to dislike. He said that he would come over more and he promised to be more of a father figure. He told me to make more of myself than he made of himself. Was this man as bad as my mother made him to be? We only spoke for a few minutes before my mother reappeared in the doorway and directed me to my room. I said goodbye, brushed pass my mother, and darted upstairs, unsure of the significance of meeting my biological father for the first time held.<br>
I didn’t know what he meant by “make more of yourself” then, but I do now. He never became that father figure that he promised and I didn’t see him again until Thanksgiving 2004. Those few minutes of conversation with my father taught me more than any lecture that my mother had preached before. It taught me to have integrity and determination to succeed. I won’t be like my father. I refuse to let my negative community dictate how I will live my life. I refuse to settle in my growth as an intellectual being. I refuse to be silenced and I refuse to submit to any obstacle. Sure it would be ludicrous to say that my biological father has inspired me to a life of success with four little words, “make more of yourself,” but I plan on surpassing the standard that he set for me, although me never rose to the standard I set for him.</p>
<p>Bump for this year's applicants.</p>
<p>Does reading this make anyone else feel better? I don't mean that they all suck, there are some very good ones, but I still feel like "ok, if people got in on these essays, I CAN do it". Especially considering the emphasis that Chicago places on the essays.</p>
<p>My essay is pretty sub-par, I'm sorry.</p>
<p>But even if all of them were unnaturally good, I think Chicago just looks for you in the essays.</p>
<p>First of all, I have known about the University of Chicago since I was in China. However, it was not until my stepfather introduced University of Chicago to me that I truly found it as something worth pursuing all these years in high school. He told me that University of Chicago is a prestigious school that emphasizes on social science as well as general science and has the best economics program in the country.
I want to study economics and physics at University of Chicago because I find the study of the correlation between these two subjects both challenging and useful. The reason is simple: the best way to improve everyone's life is by improving the standard of living for everyone through technological advances. This is more efficient than giving money away frivolously, since I know that free money indulges people and makes them less reliant on their own resources. To me, better technologies can reduce the costs of production and market prices, which lead to more buying power and higher employment rates. Thus, one of my goals in life would be to try and add to solutions to poverty by furthering the application of the relationship between science and economics in light of the equation MMP (Men's material progress)=HE (Human energy)+NR (Natural resources) </p>
<p>
[quote]
i've realized that my favorite essays are the ones that are just "different". i like the ones that are entirely conversations, ones that are poems, the one that had the newspaper format, and I liked deciding's one too.
[/quote]
I hope Adcoms think like you to because both of my essays are entirely conversations.</p>
<p>my own prompt...accepted early action</p>
<p>Perhaps your pants have traveled long distances with you, or your teddy has listened to the many trials and tribulations of your life. Regardless, non-living companions can sometimes truly be a mans best friend. Discuss an inanimate object that you feel a great connection with. </p>
<p>I wear elephants on my wrist; little tiny silver statuettes whose intricate details represent the lines of time, the grooves of pain, and the never-ending cycles of hope and rebirth. The worn metal: a tattered past. The chain: a unified spirit. Fitting the clasp is a struggle, for bringing together separate ends can never be simple. When I finally link the two parts, the fit is ideal. The cool metal embraces my wrist, without question, without judgment, simply providing color, texture, and life to a blank canvas. These elephants have trekked foreign lands, flown through the air, and seen the sunrise from distant places; however, their roots remain in the crowded, dusty, market of Phnom Penh, Cambodia, where we were first united.<br>
These elephants tell stories of a place far from my home in the suburbs of Washington D.C., distant from the mindset of modernity, and removed from the remorseless indifferent concerns of individualism. They come from a more simple and pure time, a time where people and nature were one. Their origins trace to a land where banyan trees grow alongside ancient, stone temples, intertwining themselves in a harmonious union of existence; beautifully connected to each other and the surrounding world. These elephants also tell tales of hurt, pain, and anxiety. They discuss the arduous task of continued existence after near-annihilation. Through the opaque air, they show skeletons of the past, looming figures such as tanks, bombs, and other demons of destruction, which all serve as a fresh reminder to the unhealed wounds of genocide.
In the reflections of their polished surfaces, I see the smiles of people with hope. I see the desire of those with will. I am reminded of their resolve, and am touched and honored to have met them. These elephants, though tiny trinkets sitting atop my shelf, are indicative of my revival, my awakening. They have added to my conscious perception that the world extends beyond my daily routine and immediate surroundings. My elephants have shown me that life is more than the present; it consists of the depths of the past as well as the anticipations of the future. These elephants have scars, they have stories, but they also reflect drive and aspiration. They are dull, but beneath their haunting veneer, exists a gleaming layer of hope. Their dreams and desires are no different from my own. Their thoughts are my thoughts, their despairs are also shared by me, and their future is my future. My elephants, their land and people included, are part of me. They have reserved a unique nook in my soul where they are cherished and loved.
In a land far removed from my own, in a crowded labyrinth of vendors, shoppers, and abandoned souls, I found my elephants. Little did I know I had also found myself.</p>
<p>i love essays made up entirely of conversations.</p>
<p>Great Essay Btw, katie.</p>
<p>Oh, are we posting essays? Cause I'll post mine. The old essays really helped me on mine and I used the advice of several people on some old threads.</p>
<p>They have the time, the time of their life
I saw a man who danced with his wife
In Chicago ... Chicago ... Chicago, Chicago
Free and easy town, brassy, breezy town
Chicago, “The Joker is Wild”</p>
<p>Let that wind blow left and right, through maple leaves and drying laundry. If I stand correct, it has a smell to clear. The name Chicago derives from the Native American word Eschicagou which means either “skunk” or “smelly onions” and so the people of Chicago cry “Bring on the draft and gale!,” “Hopi, let me hear your aeolian song! (for you poets and artists),” and “Where’s my Febreeze?” Does not the smell of onions and skunks persist long after the original blow and permeate its victims through and through? There is Wrigley Field in the north, Little Italy in the west, and the University of Chicago in Hyde Park in the south. Yes, there is something in the atmosphere of the University of Chicago- the smell of green and budding ideas sprouting from knowledge and the love and excitement of learning- the scent of Crescat scientia; vita excolatur. I have learned for learning’s sake and played for fun’s sake. And I have seen the two merge into red passion. As curiosity and love takes its natural undaunted course, these interests will grow fearlessly and energetically, widening the scope of my understanding and knowledge. Having been fed, it will continuously spread into uncrossed regions and pose unfounded and founded questions from which yet more questions shall stem. Answers will need to be given and perhaps challenged. Possibly a student from the University of Chicago will frown a bit, rub his temples thoughtfully, face the questioner, and supply a new perspective, sparking a night-long discussion filled with caf? mocha, talks of divided government, the etymology of the English language, and, of course, the cultural influences on the Civil War. It is because of this intellectualism that I fell madly and incurably in love with the University of Chicago. And how could I not? Its academic ethos, scavenger-hunt tradition, neo Gothic and grotesquely wonderful gargoyles, and, especially, its high value in education astounded me with the feeling that I belonged and that it was there for students like me. Andrew Abbott said “There are no aims of education. The aim is education. If—and only if—you seek it…education will find you. Welcome to the University of Chicago." Ah, as it has always been, it is there—to education—that I travel. It is there that I shall run after. It is there where I shall grow. The growth will not be only in mind but in spirit, understanding, and skills. After realizing how much this philosophy enveloped my thought, I searched every nook and cranny for more information, eager for a piece of mail telling me more about the University. Emails, letters, and guides informing me about the nationally ranked political science department, the two different curriculums for chemistry majors, and the riches of resources and life in the city of Chicago itself left me breathless and giddy. This haven for minds thirsting to know seemed too good to be true. I dreamily imagined potential future classmates with whom I might have the opportunity to learn with and from, a wild array of stimulating yet demanding classes and lectures to attend (where I shall toss my head in euphoric misery), and the benefit of working with others whose common love for learning is massively encouraged. All the things I love about Chicago can be summarized in a single word- home. It is where students, all guided by the supreme principle that the goal is education, are united to share in the electricity of intellectualism and ideas present in every mind, word, and air particle of the University. It is where this flow of energy reigns over the atmosphere challenging every thought and enriching every intellect. Nay, ‘tis no odor of smelly onions that drift through these woods but, in truth, green ideas and vibrant passion that spread in multitude. And I will sing “Blow, wind, blow with fierce and might to coffee shops and crowded bus stops.”</p>
<p>I must say, KatiKorea's elephant essay is really great.</p>
<p>I'm severely sleep deprived and very paranoid . May thus chicken out and take this down later. blah di da di la di da di da...</p>
<p>?So this going to be like any other meeting. We?re going to go ?round in a circle and introduce ourselves like so?? A collective groan rumbles around the table. Dr. Phil?s Midwestern drawl has become grating, its nasal graininess only exacerbated by the barely masked hint of irritation in his voice.
?You say, ?Hi, my name is blank, and I?m? I?m??
?Oh c?mon,? he says, realizing his supposedly captive audience to be neither captive nor even especially attentive. ?And I?m a nihilist!? he shouts. ?A nihilist. This isn?t hard, people. You all know why you?re here. In fact, perhaps y?all should take a minute or two to reflect on just why you are here.?
I wonder if the comment is directed towards me. After all, though I am hosting this event, I am not a nihilist nor do I suffer from crippling existential anxiety. I?m here at my English teacher?s request:
?I want you to host this event,? she?d said, ?because??
?Because my most recent essay on identity as an extension of environment in existentialist literature was particularly compelling?? I ventured hopefully.
?No.?
?Oh.?
?I?m asking you because, frankly, I find you, at times, almost unnaturally? peppy, I guess.?
?Peppy??
?Yes, peppy, unnervingly so, I would say.?
?Um, thank you??
?Listen, we already have someone set up to talk with these people. You just have to observe. My concern, though, is that the characters at these events are, well, real characters. It tends to be a very intensely gloomy, depressing environment that many students are a bit ill-prepared for. Entering with an open, cheerful disposition as you seem to do may be an asset to you and disarming to others. At the very least, you may succeed in scaring a few people.?
I decided to take this as a compliment.
In addition, I decided to host the meeting at the Atlanta Botanical Garden, in a mirrored ceramic skull roughly the size of a small gazebo. The sun beats down on the pavement outside, almost violently, but inside, the skull is cool, dark, vaguely subterranean. Its heavy caveman brow acts as awning, while what little light does penetrate into the darkness glints harmlessly off the blue tiled-glass floor. This fact, however, does not prevent the first to speak from issuing a complaint.
?Sorry, I didn?t hear you. The sun, monsieur, it was in my eye.?
Mr. Phil sighs. ?Meursault, you know that?s not true. You?re making excuses. ?
Meursault shrugs. ?It doesn?t matter. Why should it matter? Why should anything matter?? he growls, his jaw visibly clenched. He skulks off silently to rest upon the occipital bone.</p>
<p>The next to stand, situated upon the parietal, are two large scarecrows, each adorned with grotesque earthen masks whose lips curl upwards into the sly smile of Guy Fawkes, their flimsy, ragged skins bursting at the seams with straw. They speak in unison, their whispers barely audible, almost inhuman. ?We are the hollow men.?</p>
<p>Mr. Phil raises an eyebrow. ?Hollow, you say? Well, now,? be begins eagerly, ?this is something I might be able to help you out with. Not like McAngsty over there,? he adds, nodding towards Meursault, who, as usual, does not appear to notice.<br>
?So,? he continues, ?Ya iden?ify yourself as hollow. Why is that? Ya don?t eat? Ya don?t keep your food down. Cause, ya know, that can be a serious problem. You?re asking for all kinds a serious medical issues, enamel erosion, dangerously low blood pressure, heart failure??<br>
?Uh, Mr. Phil,? I interrupt, ?these men, they?re not anorectics??
?We are the hollow men, ? the men repeat. ?We are the stuffed men.?
?Hold on, now,? says Mr. Phil, ?stuffed? Well, I?m hearin? a whole other issue now. It sounds like y?all must be dealing with trying to fill an emotional void. Tryin? to fill it with food, huh? ?
?Mr. Phil,? I say again. ?That?s really not what they?re saying??
?Oh, really now? Well, let me ask you one thing: Who?s the doctor here??
?Uh?? I pause and realize I don?t know. In fact, I realize for the first time that I have no idea if Dr. Phil is actually a licensed physician. I make a mental note to Wikipedia this immediately upon returning home. But no matter, Dr. Phil has already taken my silence to be a concession.<br>
?As ah was saying, you?re trying to fill that emotional void with food. But that food ain?t gonna do a thing if you don?t learn to get to the root of your problems, the thing ya ain?t satisfied with, and learn to accept it. Ya gotta say, ?I?m here, I?m hollow, and everybody else is just gonna have to get used to that.? So whadda ya say to that??
?We whisper,? they reply.<br>
I can?t stay silent any longer. It?s just too ridiculous. ?Sir, these men do not suffer from eating disorders. They live in an environment in which nothing holds inherent meaning. None of the conventional social values to which we are accustomed hold true and the traditional representations of divinity prove equally hollow as if all channels of communication with that higher power have been severed. It is incredibly isolating.?
Again, I am met only with Dr. Phil?s puzzled expression. ?Oprah wouldn?t stand for this,? he huffs.
?I?m hungry,? Meursault says, emerging suddenly from his corner. ?I need a cigarette.? And with that, he slinks off again, into the sunlight he so despises, leaving me his unopened sandwich.
?Well, I guess, we have extras. Anybody hungry?? I gesture towards the Hollow Men.
?Thank you,? they rasp, ?but no thank you. We?re stuffed.?</p>
<p>That's hilarious. This is a bit cynical, but I deffinitely get hollow/stuffed men syndrome during the holidays.</p>
<p>i made my own prompt</p>
<p>Janet Fitch once said, ?We are larger than biography.?
Describe who you are, without mentioning any actual events that happened in your life. </p>
<p>There are so many things I don?t know.</p>
<p>I don?t know the temperature of laughter or the shape of anger.<br>
I don?t know the sound of cirrus clouds or the velocity of hope.
I don?t know the feel of purple or the taste of the letter Z.
I don?t know the depth of trees or the color of triumph. </p>
<p>So I imagine. </p>
<p>Laughter is 98.7 degrees Fahrenheit, just slightly warmer than human.
Anger is a cat?s favorite chew toy, a gnarled and twisted clump of fuzzy yarn.
Cirrus clouds sound like tiny Queen Anne?s lace fairies playing tiny piccolos.
Hope travels outward at the same rate that peace is absorbed.
Purple feels like plush velvet and the inside of a featherbed.
Z tastes crunchy and sugary sweet, with a subtle strawberry aftertaste.
Trees are as deep as their branches can reach and their leaves can fly.
Triumph is a vibrant read with brilliant flecks of sparkles in between.</p>
<p>There is another thing I don?t know- I don?t know who I am or who I?ll be. </p>
<p>A stranger on the street might not remember much about me. He might comment on my layered black hair that always covered my eyes, or he might mention my overly-chapped lips. He might notice my sun-burnt legs or my gangly arms that are perpetually swinging around me. If he was really attentive, he might even observe the mole on the left side of my rosy cheeks. But who exactly is this person?</p>
<p>So I try to imagine.
But I am overwhelmed by the exhilarating tumult of myself:
I am what I love and what I what, what I still wonder and where I?ve been, what I want and what I will learn.</p>
<p>I love pillow fights, burnt cheesecake, John Hughes movies, stargazing, bubble wraps, running along the sand, airplane pillows, long division, the life of mind, reading the newspaper at dawn, singing to Madonna songs, receiving mail, smiles from strangers, my future children, vintage dresses, hiccupping, sitcoms, coincidences, and dancing in the rain.
I hate telemarketers, asparagus, ignorance, the smell of skunk, shots, pop quizzes on Mondays, stomaches, guilt, failure, jokes with no punchlines, emptiness, skinny jeans, razor burn, static cling, Scantron tests, getting out the shower and realizing I don?t have a towel, cigar smoke, the sound of fingernails scratching a chalkboard, cursing, glares, and multitasking.
I wonder if plants can hear me, if aliens exist, about the past, about tomorrow, about what college I?m going to attend, why love hurts, about what therapists do on vacation, about the existence of fairy tale endings, why Dinosaur band-aids work best, how long it will be before Disney rules the world, if innocence can be sustained, and how to make a good souffl?.
I have been enlightened, proven wrong, learned the times table lost, late, around the world, there, been really listening, praised, pure, in doubt, in love, hated, searching for the truth, and awestruck.
I want happiness, to have my foot pop during my first kiss, to make a scrapbook of my high school memories, spontaneity, to squeeze lemons, to trick-o-treat, success, to make a slingshot, hot cocoa on a rainy day, and to hug my mom.
I am going to learn from my mistakes, go over the rainbow, be myself, go to forbidden islands, learn six different languages, spend New Years at New York City, go window shopping, meet celebrities, be remembered by whomever I meet, make a difference in the world, and triumph. </p>
<p>Who can really say they know themselves inside and out? Probably not many. But we try, through lists, through journeys, through revelations, and through our entire existence. Sometimes, we even get a glimpse of what we are made of and that maybe be all we get. But for me, that?s all I need, because I have my whole life to find out. </p>
<p>Who will I be? I still don?t know.
She is beyond the realm of my imagination.</p>