<p>Hi,i’m waiting for that!^_^</p>
<p>Sure, pm me. :)</p>
<p>PM please! will comment</p>
<p>ill read it</p>
<p>PM me if you’d like an editor to take a look at it!</p>
<p>While I really applaud your efforts in helping people with writing their essay, I’m wondering why you would put yourself through the daunting task of contacting everyone here when you could merely post your essay and save yourself the trouble.</p>
<p>I want to take a look please.</p>
<p>PM to me if you’d like me to glance over it.</p>
<p>pm me if you want</p>
<p>sure! PM me and I’ll love to edit yours. Will you be willing to take a look at mine?</p>
<p>i’ll read it!!!</p>
<p>I’ll read it.</p>
<p>i’ll read it!</p>
<p>Not only will i read it, but ill also critique it</p>
<p>I’ll read it! PM me, please!</p>
<p>I dont want to read it</p>
<p>I’ll read it! PM me please</p>
<p>I’d be honored. You can just PM me if you want to.</p>
<p>PM me. I’ll definitely take a look at it.</p>
<p>Alright im just gonna post it lol. People please feel free to comment (ok maybe its not the best essay ive written 
) </p>
<p>“Good morning Mr. Taghavi”: The first words that reached my ears every day at school my junior year. They came from the mouth of Mohammed, a sophomore fresh in from Baghdad who, for some reason completely beyond me, had become utterly enamored with me. I had told him countless times that it was neither necessary nor proper to call me Mr. Taghavi, but it was all to no avail. I gave up, “Morning Mohammed,” I smiled. I sat down on the steps of the East Building as he, still standing, went on to explain to me whatever had interested him the day before. I wasn’t listening; I was lost in deeper thought: figuring out the bonus question on yesterday’s Pre-Cal test was. It wasn’t that I didn’t get the answer, I did, it was how I did: guess and check. It was right, but I wanted to know how. “Mr. Taghavi?” Mohammed asked. Back to reality. I was suddenly aware of all the chattering, flirting, and pointless bickering that filled the oh-so-polluted air. “I’m sorry man, what were you saying?” I said shaking my head. Why was he still standing? “What I’m trying to say, Mr. Taghavi, is that the world is a beautiful place,” he said smiling. I chuckled. “Mr. Taghavi, I know you are busy thinking, but may I ask, what are you thinking about?” “Math,” I replied. I knew it was coming. The question everyone asks when I tell them I’m thinking about math. “Why?” It had such a confused tone about it. As if to ask, “Why would anybody ever think about math?”. I didn’t have an answer, so I shrugged “Because I like it,”. Strangely, he seemed to accept that answer, “Is that what you’ll study?” I’d never really made a decision about it. I had of course dabbled with the idea, but it always seemed to me that I should major in something more useful. “I guess so,” the words spilled out of my mouth as a group of girls screamed in terror at a flock of pigeons that had flown dangerously close to them. I started thinking about why I wanted to study math. Obviously I had a passion for it, but I had a passion about music and soccer too; nothing in me yearned to learn more about either of those. After a minute or two of pondering I figured it out: Math had never really challenged me. I’d never had any trouble grasping the concept of what was going on in math class, nor had I ever omitted an answer on a math test. I had gotten some wrong, due to careless mistakes, but none had really challenged me. As nice as that may sound, for me it’s frustratingly unfulfilling. I have a constant itch for mathematical trial, an addiction. I want math to challenge me, I want it to stump me, I want it to punch me in the face and not relent. I went on to try to sum up all these feelings about math into a statement. “I want to be bewildered by math,” I whispered. “What?” I had forgotten Mohammed was there. He was watching me think. “Sorry, it’s nothing,” I managed to mutter after a few seconds. He was still standing. My eyes were on his shins, but my mind was somewhere in between genius and insane. I just kept repeating the phrase in my head: bewildered by math. The shrill of the first bell pierced my fragile ears. “Until tomorrow Mr. Taghavi,” said Mohammed patting my back. “Until tomorrow,” I answered.</p>