<p>I dont care anymore. This should help prospective applicants:</p>
<p>Common App (Topic of your Choice)</p>
<pre><code>Hi. I’ve written sixteen drafts. None of them sound like me. I’ve written sixteen opening hooks. None of them sound like me. I cover my eyes as I click DELETE again. The sight is just too painful. Hours of writing, and I’m back at square one, staring blankly at an empty word document. It is two in the morning, and needless to say, I’m tired. At the moment, I need something clever, something to hook the reader with. But my audience isn’t a fish. Plus it is late, and I lack the energy to continue trying to be clever and cute. The reader will just have to understand that I don’t talk in metaphors or begin my daily conversations with clever anecdotes. I put my fingers to my keyboard and type the most straightforward opening I can think of. Hi.
I’m not trying to be Shakespeare; I don’t throw around big words. I’m not trying to be Socrates; I have no keen philosophical insights to offer. But after reading my sixteen drafts, one would get the wrong impression. Through my witty attempts to elevate and fluff my writing, I hid my own style, settling for a one that sounded both foolish and forced. I write about Socialism and invent bizarre stories only Lewis Carol can understand. I don’t do well with constricting topics. I never have.
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<p>It was my seventh grade summer, and I had registered for a creative writing seminar. That July I spent thirty-five hours a week hidden in a windowless trailer set in the heart of rural Maryland. There I sat, staring at the burgundy colored walls lined only with motivational posters. Every class began the same way, with brainstorming. Somehow I was expected to convert my thoughts into words with only the aid of a picture of Mount Everest and the word “Success.” Mr. Scriven, our teacher, cared about the class very little and taught us even less. Excluding lunch, we had two fifteen-minute breaks, one in the morning and one in the afternoon; the rest of the day was spent brainstorming, writing, and editing. I felt as if I were in a RandomHouse sweatshop.
I took the term “creative” literally, and for my final piece blatantly disregarded the assigned topic. Rather than describe a lake our class had frequented, I wrote an eleven-page narrative about the Jabberwock after reading an analysis of the poem. I invented most of the words. It was upon completing my nonsensical story that my teacher, expecting a descriptive essay, told me on the last day of class that I was a failure (as a writer). This criticism has stuck with me ever since. An essay that I had thought was perfect had been viciously shot down in front of my peers. I was embarrassed.
Five years later and I still prefer loose narratives over structured essays. For me, writing is a vehicle of expression. I write when I’m angry. I write when I’m happy. I write when I’m nervous. I don’t write because someone tells me to write. Who am I trying to fool by adhering to a bland five-paragraph template? Don’t tell me how to begin my essay. I don’t need your fishing hooks.
It’s late, but I’m no longer tired. As of now, I have written seventeen drafts, but only one of them sounds like me. I have written seventeen openers, but only one of them sounds like me. If I begin a conversation with Hi, it would be rude of me not to say Goodbye, and I’ve been told that my writing can be rude, so I’ll just leave it at that.</p>
<p>Penn</p>
<p>Page 217 (Optional)</p>
<p>sprawled out on a futon and laid my crossword puzzle on an adjacent three legged coffee table. My friends find it odd that none of my furniture has four legs; I find it odd that none of theirs has three. Three legs are just as stable four, the only difference being the price. Years ago, I stumbled upon a quaint little pawn shop on Mass. Ave that, after much bargaining, sold me a three-legged set of furniture for 25% off. Quite a deal, indeed.
I again reached toward my coffee table, this time picking up a red ballpoint pen and a pad of yellow lined paper. Then scribbling down some numbers, I divided by zero.</p>
<pre><code>It’s really a neat trick. During my long metro rides home, I’ll pull out a piece of scrap paper and pass the time by dividing numbers by zero, chuckling to myself as fellow commuters look on with bewilderment. But I pretend not to notice. Sometimes when I go to my neighbor’s wine and cheese parties, I’ll bring along a small pad of paper to liven things up. While guests are nibbling on wedges of Roquefort and sipping vintage port wines, I’ll be busy gathering an audience around an uninhabited corner of the apartment. By the time I actually finish dividing by zero, gasps of disbelief fill the room as spectators are unsure whether to harbor feelings of deep terror or unbounded respect. I just smile. Usually, a member of the audience will scream in pain as his head implodes, collapsing upon itself like a super massive black hole from a sheer inability to comprehend such a concept. The crowd is whipped into a frenzy and cries are made for medical assistance. I still just smile. 1/x is now a continuous graph. I have disproved the entire operation of limits and consequently the branch of mathematics known as Calculus. I’ve been urged to publish my findings in obscure math periodicals; however, why bother when I’m having so much fun at these wine and cheese parties? A magician never reveals his secret. 5/0 is 2. Give me a pen and paper and I’ll prove it.
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<p>Chapter 13</p>
<pre><code>People call me Superman, but please, just call me super. I hate the crime-fighting implications that such a title carries. I don’t want to come off as arrogant, but I am a big deal. There, I just did it again. I can’t stop myself! But at this rate, why would I want to?
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<p>My neighbor hates me, but he is yet to ban me from one of his wine and cheese gatherings, so I will continue making appearances until my presence is unwelcome. I think, deep down inside, he is grateful that I liven them up. He’s not the kind of guy I would imagine</p>
<p>Professor</p>
<p>I hope to study with Dr. Marsha Lester, the chairman of the Department of Chemistry. Her discovery of the elusive OH-HONO2 molecule opens the door to a better understanding of the reactions that occur in our natural atmosphere, mainly those that break down pollutants. Once this process is fully uncovered, a catalyst can then be applied to increase the reaction rate, purging nitric and sulfuric acids from the atmosphere on a grander scale. I was attracted to Dr. Lester’s work at Penn because of its potential to prevent the root cause of acid rain and global warming. I find that such promising meteorological endeavors often go overlooked as medical and technological research is, more often than not, given a priority. But at Penn, research isn’t limited to just a few select fields. With over 4,000 total faculty and unparalleled resources, there is bound to be an ongoing project on anything and everything.</p>
<p>Why Penn</p>
<pre><code>Ten years ago the idea was thought to have been impossible, yet at the present, engineers are designing what may be a prototype for the first invisibility cloak. Engineering implements new ideas and improves upon old ones. Millions saw the apple fall, but Newton was the one who asked why. I don’t want to pursue a chemistry major; rather, I want to pursue a chemical engineering one. To some the difference between the two is only that of a word, but to me such is not the case. Engineering trains thinkers. It produces problem solvers who in turn use their abilities to change the world. The results may be as simple as a toilet or as revolutionary as an invisibility cloak, but the skill set is the same.
After spending four weeks of my sophomore year summer at Penn working in labs, sitting through lectures, and wandering about the many academic buildings, I know firsthand that Penn’s engineering facilities, like the GRASP Lab, are topnotch. Throughout my four years in high school I have tried as much as possible to immerse myself in math and science. I have put every effort forth to take full advantage of all possible opportunities, and I hope to further my interests by studying with world-class professors and researchers such as Dr. Marsha Lester.
The best education is one that challenges both hemispheres of the brain. After taking Latin as a freshman, I wanted, at the time, to pursue a Classics major. Since my school didn’t offer an option for taking Greek, I registered for a three week summer course in Lancaster, PA. Like that of many engineering students at Penn, my intellectual curiosity is not limited to the fields of math and science. That’s why the One University policy is so appealing. Along with a chemical engineering workload, I wish to take Dr. Struck’s classes on Roman Art and Architecture and Intermediate Greek Prose.
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<p>Penn’s urban location provides me with the opportunity to continue my service with Habitat for Humanity. The many clubs and intramural sports available on campus present me with the option of continuing old activities or taking up new ones. Coming from a high school with fewer than five hundred students, I can truly appreciate sense of community the housing system fosters among the freshmen. Even after my university studies, I would like to join the DC Penn Club and remain active with fellow alumni. I’ve explored campuses and flipped through pamphlets, and I know without a doubt that Penn is where I fit best. I hope that one day I will have an opportunity to proudly don the familiar red and blue colors and call myself a Quaker.</p>
<p>Chicago</p>
<p>*Option 1: "At present you must live the question" (more of a statement than a question. but I did my best) *</p>
<p>The aged gypsy sat directly in front of me, her thoughts lost deep in a crystal orb. I had come to her with a question; she had yet to give me an answer. Half an hour passed in this silent manner. Our hands rested on the circular table, clasped around the misty ball. I began to suspect that she was simply a kook. She couldn’t be trusted; she had no intention of returning my wallet. Perhaps I should have listened to my roommate. Then again, my intuition had served me well up to that point. It had gotten me through college, brought me to Chicago, and landed me my first, and only, job which included a 43rd floor suite overlooking Lake Michigan. I needed an answer right now, not regrets. I needed this shriveled tramp to speak to me, to tell me what I wanted to hear. Finally the statue came back to life, and as if reading my inner thoughts, slowly enunciated six words.
I hadn’t gone to church that previous Sunday, the Sunday before that, nor any of the past Sundays for the last nine years. I went to a Catholic pre-school, a Catholic elementary school, a Catholic middle school, and a Catholic high school, but, unlike my brother, flatly refused to attend a Catholic college. I simply couldn’t bear listening to the incoherent ramblings of nuns any longer. Six months ago, I was planning a wedding. Four months ago, I was planning a funeral. My fianc</p>
Cafesimone knows who you are mwahahaha (this essay is still in my inbox after you sent it to me)</p>
If i were an admission officer i’d admit you right off the bat after reading that.</p>