Okay, before I get flamed to hell, I just want to clarify some things.
1) I'm not asking for edits
2) I am asking for impressions from people that are almost as unbiased towards me as a college admissions officer.
3) Thanks a lot.
So, without further ado, here is my application essay. It was a lot better, but I had to crop it from 917 words to 500. I'd like you guys to be brutally honest: does it suck? Can you hear my voice in my writing? Can you feel my emotions through it? Shit like that. If you want to make suggestions, that is awesome as well. I wouldn't normally post shit like this, but I've edited it sooo many times in the last two or three days that I actually have it memorized, so reading it again won't help me. Thanks.
All was silent but the clock, steadily counting seconds. I stared at that clock for a solid minute before my mother entered the room. The leather creaked as she sat down. Wearing a pained expression, she looked at my brother and me. My father seemed to be committing the pattern of the rug to memory; he would not meet my eye. It was immediately clear why we were there: it was something to do with my mother’s cancer.
For years, I had lived with the fact that my mother had a terminal illness. When I was in the second grade, my parents had sat my brother and I down in that same living room and told us that my mother had cancer, and explained what that meant. I couldn’t accept it as a reality, however, until I saw my mom in the midst of chemotherapy. My mother, the strongest woman I know, struck down by a malevolent force that I could not see, hear, or strike out at. My mother, whom I love dearly, lying in a hospital bed with tubes going in and out of her. My mother, who had wisps of hair still clinging to her pale scalp, the remnants of thick golden locks. It was then I realized she was fighting for her life. Unable to articulate my fear, I let it fester inside me until I grew accustomed to it. My mother was sick: it was a fact of my life, and hers. I had been so conditioned to my mother’s illness that I had accepted it, and forgotten that her life was threatened. I had convinced myself that all was well. Perhaps that is why my parents’ news was so terrifying.
As I looked back and forth from my mother’s profoundly sad expression to my father’s downcast eyes, I knew that all was not well. The silence was punctuated only by the crackling of the fire. My father was racking his brain for words that would not come. He started tentatively, “Cancer has become very real for us, as has death…” His voice trailed off. He began again. “The doctors have informed us that mom is going to die.” His voice broke halfway through the sentence, and tears streamed down his face. My brother and I were hugging my mom with all our strength. I was saying between sobs, “Don’t die, don’t die, please don’t die!” I was hysterical. My mother blew her nose. “I’ve been given three to six months.”
That day forever changed my outlook on life. I am now acutely aware that death inevitably awaits me. Unlike most adolescents, I do not have the luxury of imagining myself immortal. I see death as a reality rather than an abstract concept, so I recognize that life is a privilege. As a result, I try to enjoy life as much as I can, while working towards my aspirations. Life is too short to waste.
Again, thanks for your time maggots. To anyone who read this and replied with helpful remarks, consider yourself a golden god. Also consider that I owe you a beer.
