Writing Feedback / "I am a loaf of bread" - Unique Personal Essay: Wanted [5]

Hi! I was assigned to write a personal essay with clear diction and that should be uniquely stylized. Plus my teacher hinted at using these for extra attaments for college applications. I would love to hear any sort of comments. Please don't hold back, for I am not very sensitive. Here's my go at it :

I am a slab of dough waiting to be baked in the Wonder Bread factory.
I started just like any loaf: mostly flour, yeast, eggs, a bit of salt, and water (Let's not mention all those preservatives. It is a little embarrassing to us loaves.). My life began in an enormous mixing bowl. The baker dumped my guts into this bowl and then lifted down two stainless claws to activate me. It was a muddling beginning-being blended, torn apart, and then somehow forming back together.

After my birth, I am dumped into a giant trough. I am neither alone nor scared, for I have a have a large family of future loaves. We are bonded as one ton of dough, rising as the space around us warms. We rely on each other. For if one part of the network is unusable, we all fail and are thrown out. Unlike some, my family is strong and we will be taken to the next process. But for now, we are comforted in the heat and swell with potential.

Next we must be kneaded. This is the most frightening position for loaves. The baker and his machine crash into us, pounding, bruising. Wave after wave, we are beaten down. We are not allowed to rest and are powerless against the ungodly machine. I feel battered and terribly tired, but the baker doesn't seem to notice nor care. Eventually he relents. The other loaves and I are distanced from each other due to the kneading. We are all a bit embarrassed by the way we accepted this beating without fighting back. Slowly we turn back towards each other, humbled. We bond back together to mend the tears and holes in our little network. We are a strong, sticky mass and we leave the kneading process only temporarily deflated.

Subsequently, I am parted from my family. We are placed into a gleaming machine that dismembers us from each other (At the rate of 192 loaves a minute, I am told). I am suddenly alone, thrusted into a new area in which I had never been. I speed uncontrollable down the conveyor belt. I gaze franticly around for any sense of normalcy. Finally I am deposited on a large tray, surrounded by hundreds of other balls of dough. I am told that I am waiting to be baked, waiting for my new life as a loaf to begin.

I am afraid, so very terrified, that the baker somehow messed up on me. I'm frightened that some integral piece of me is missing and that I won't be wanted. What happens then? After my arduous journey, am I simply to be thrown out? Besides, what happens if I do bake correctly? Will my short life only consist of being packaged in the bag with polka dots, only distinguishable by the color of my twist tie (Red, for I am to be baked on a Thursday)? Will I simply sit on a shelf in a local grocery store, waiting for my inevitable death?

I am a slab of dough waiting to be baked in the Wonder Bread factory. I am lingering with hundreds of others who are identical to me. We have the same stories and are made out of the same parts. Here's a secret: I hate this factory. I despise that the baker made us indistinguishable, interchangeable. For I am not the same as every other loaf, I have creases and indentations that make me unique. But as I sit here on this tray, I realize I have only one fate. I was made to be baked, and baked I must be. The timer buzzes and I realize it is my turn. Soon I will graduate from this wretched factory and enter the 'real world.'

I am a loaf of bread from the Wonder Bread Factory. I am finally done waiting.

Undergraduate / The Boys in the Basement, the Dogs in the Dining Room-- Common App. Essay [4]

So I have tried numerous times to write essays for my Common Application, none of them being any good. I am afraid that this essay isn't enough about me, and that I'm telling, not showing. Please let me know what you all think. Thank you!!!

The Boys in the Basement, the Dogs in the Dining Room

By Marissa Neale
Whenever I invite a person to my house for the first time, I wait for The Look. At first, the guest casually enters the door, commenting on my mom's doll collection or the portraits of my sister and I. Then I watch as the visitor's features gently contort into an expression of surprise and later, a polite confusion. The Look usually remains for about five minutes until I can explain myself. For in my kitchen right now are five dachshunds, an Amazon parrot, and two twenty-year old boys that are not related to me, all eating pizza with my parents.

The first comment of most people consists of something similar to, "Wow, you have a lot of dogs." I smile and nod, for this is nothing new. Three out of the five dogs are originally mine. They are the three that I received after years of imploring my father. The other two, also known as the Oldie But Goodies, lived with my grandmother. However, after she past away this March, we inherited both the dogs. The bird was also my grandmother's, and when he is not preening or throwing seeds everywhere, he loudly calls for both crackers and my mother. So after I introduce people to my wiggling, yelping menagerie of animals, or Roxie, Sammy, Bella, Gizzie, Zarta, and Toby the Bird, most people understand why it is impossible to hear me on the telephone and why my clothes often smell suspiciously like dog. They are also why I wake up extra early to take them on walks. The Look, which would faintly reduce as I explain the pets, remains on the visitor's face as he or she whispers, pointing to the pajama clad figure, "But who are the boys?"

The pizza-eating, pajama-wearing boys are slightly more complicated to explain. My dad has taught history and government at the same school in the inner city for about twenty-five years. He has dreamed of opening an all-boys public high school because of the lack of support from families and the failing school system of Milwaukee. My dad has always tried his best to encourage his students to go to college and create a better future for themselves. Thus, I was introduced to the two boys, or as I know them, Kyarheio and Mikail. I met Kyarheio and Mikail after my dad got them hired at the same summer job as I worked at. They always worked very hard to earn money for their families and for their futures. However once they graduated from high school, they had no idea what to do. Neither could immediately afford college, and both had drastic family issues. Mikail had no family members remaining in the state, as his mother recently moved to Florida. Kyarheio's family members spent their time either in a gang or "borrowing" money from his bank account. Either way, both boys needed some guidance.

Imagine my surprise coming home to find the boys bringing their personal items into my house. I questioningly looked to my dad for answers, who simply said,

"They are going to be staying in our basement until they can get back on their feet."
The first night they spent with us was happy as they teasingly taught my sister and I how to play a videogame and we tried to teach them the dogs' names. However, this "honeymoon period" wouldn't last.

After two weeks, I wanted them gone. Having only a sister, I was not used the loud, unedited boisterousness that teenage boys bring. I had to share a bathroom with them and I would selfishly complain every time they wouldn't remove all their hair from the drain or leave the seat up. Then there was the basement. All of their stuff was carelessly thrown about and they constantly hogged the television. The basement had been my place. I had always watched television and worked on my homework down there whenever I needed some peace. Well, the peace was shattered as they played loud rap music, and it smelled overwhelmingly like cheap cologne. I beseeched my dad to make them leave. Unmoved my trivial complaints, he refused and reprimanded me to be nice.

Despite my original complaints, Kyarheio and Mikail have lived with us for almost two years and now I couldn't imagine my life without them. We figured out the bathroom glitch and they clean up after themselves now. I still have to deal with the smell because, like most teenage boys, they do not understand that a little goes a long way. The both have full-time jobs and are saving up money so that they can attend college. But most importantly, they are part of my family now. I know that they are completely dependable and will always help me if I need it.

Now that I am content with the boys living in my house, it is very interesting to see other people's reaction. Whenever we do things as a family, I can never believe the shocked, sometimes horrified expressions of other people. Most of my friends do not understand why Kyarheio and Mikail live with us. They believe that the boys are taking advantage of us. I disagree. I believe that families come in all shapes and sizes, and do not necessarily have to biological.

The Look drops off the visitor's face and changes into complete shock as I answer the question of the boys' identity.
"They are my brothers," I say, and this feels completely true.
Kyarheio and Mikail moving in have taught me so much about tolerance, patience, and mostly, about love. Because of my parents' overwhelming generosity, I know that two more people in this world will have chance for a hopeful future.

Undergraduate / Summer job, Bee Sting - Common App. Essay [7]

Here is an option for the Common App. Essay. Is it any good? I am afraid that is is too long (it's over 1,000 words). Any feedback would be greatly appreciated.

I have a summer job working in a popcorn wagon down at the Summerfest grounds. It is easy for a first job, but the conditions are not the greatest. It is either terribly hot or freezing cold. And when it rains, I'm dripping. The only advantage is that it pays slightly higher than minimum wage. But even that does not matter because I hate it. I hate everything about this job. I hate the smell, the hours, and the owner of the business I actually avoid working when I can. I once pretended to be sick, so that I did not have to work. I cannot quit this job because my father is manages the scheduling. Every time I have to work, I get this feeling of dread and I would do anything not to have to work. Well, not anything...

This particular day was Saturday and once again, I had to work at another ethnic festival. Like usual, I was not looking forward to the long day ahead of me. It was hot outside, sticky, and the heat would surely increase in the popcorn wagon. It was about twelve o'clock and my dad had been cooking lunch before he, my sister, and I had to head over to the Summerfest grounds. He was making something special, and needed some fresh cilantro. I offered to go get some from the garden because I was particularly proud that I had grown it. Without bothering to grab any shoes, I meandered to the far side of my yard to grab some of the herb. Realizing that I would not be able to pick out the cilantro from any other plant, I asked my mom to assist me in plucking it. Still barefoot, I walked with my mom behind our tree to where the herbs were. After picking out the cilantro, I turned to walk back into the house. Suddenly, I felt something sharp pierce my foot. Figuring it was a wood chip or a twig, I just kept walking. A few seconds later I felt another series of sharp pain and this time it started to burn. I looked down at my left foot to see two ground bees hanging off of it.

I probably should have mentioned earlier that I am deathly allergic to bees. My allergy was first discovered when I was a baby when I stung at a fair. If I was not treated, then my throat would have closed up and my heart would have stopped. I learned to be careful outside during the summer and carry my EpiPen, which is pure adrenaline, but sometimes, accidents happen. Previously, I have been stung four other times, each one having worse and worse effects. Because I am allergic, I have this insane fear of bees or any other stinging insect.

Anyways, as soon as I saw the bees attached to my foot, I didn't even believe it. I tentatively cried out to my mom, "I think that I might have been stung by a bee!" My mom came rushing over to check out the situation. As soon as she saw my foot, she sucked in her breath. We then hobbled over to my house and I quickly laid on the couch. My foot was really killing me, no pun intended, and the pain was spreading up my leg.

It is always interesting to see how my family reacts during a crisis. My mom turns into the resident doctor, bustling around. My dad becomes panicked and is voice rises into a much higher pitch. My sister remains indifferent, and doubtful that there is anything wrong with me. This time, my family did me proud and acted exactly as expected. My mom was whizzing about, getting me benedryl, and finding my EpiPen. My dad was franticly looking about and checking my foot continuously. My sister sat casually at the kitchen table, occasionally rolling her eyes at the situation. My dad eagerly snatched the EpiPen from my mom's grasp. I really do think that my dad believes he is doctor, just from watching medical shows. I cringed in horror as my dad, grasping the adrenaline, says, "How do you use this thing?" As my sister chuckled in the corner, all my muscles tensed up at this amateur shot-giver. Realizing that all you have to do is turn the dial and inject, my dad poked my leg with the EpiPen. Nothing happened. As my breathing was becoming shallower, and my heartbeat was slowing down, I really did believe that I was going to die. My dad then grabbed my leg and shoved the EpiPen against it. It hurt less than expected, but it was still uncomfortable as the medication flowed through. Not knowing what to do next, my dad simply left the needle stuck hanging inside my leg.

My foot was really starting to burn even more. It had traveled from the sting on my pinky toe to all the way up to my knee. It felt like a knife slicing up my leg. My foot had turned bright red and swelled to about twice the size. I yanked out the needle from my leg and asked my mom for a band-aid; we were out of course. Meanwhile, my dad took the smashed up cilantro that I still clenched in my hand and continues cooking. My mom got me some ice for my foot and some tobacco to draw out the sting. I could feel the adrenaline starting to work; my heart began to race and my hands started to shake as though I had Parkinson's disease. In usual Dad fashion, he finished cooking the meal and made everyone's plate. He made up a plate for me, including a large piece of steak. He set it on my lap and walked to the table to eat his. With my hands shaking badly from the adrenaline, I attempted to cut a piece of meat. After watching my failed attempt, my mom takes my plate and cuts up everything into little pieces. Little by little, she then had to help me shovel the food into my already-full stomach.

After my entire family finished their meal, my dad and sister got ready to leave to go to the despised popcorn wagon, without me. Even in all the pain that I was in, I felt a tinge of relief to not be going with them. My dad hugged me goodbye and patted the enflamed area, much to my discomfort. As my sister walked out the door, glancing at my engorged foot, she remarked maliciously, "You did that on purpose." She made me feel so small, I almost wished that I had.

You sometimes get what you ask for. I did not want to work that day, and look what happened. I was stung by a bee, nearly died, and then was all but spoon-fed by my mother. Next time, I think I'll take the popcorn wagon.

Undergraduate / The Musical Mishap-- Common App "Other" Essay Topic [2]

So I have written about a million of these essays, but this the first one that I have actually liked. Please give me brutal feedback. I can take it! :)

The Musical Mishap
By Marissa Neale
My muscles tensed in anticipation as the choreographer's hand stretched towards the play button. The music started and, while not being my usual preference, it filled my body with an almost intoxicating presence. I started to move, dancing in perfect rhythm, but suddenly it all went wrong.

It was early December, which only meant one thing: musical auditions. Theater has always been exceptionally important at my high school and the spring musical is the most glittering, elaborate, and competitive production of the year. The auditions are fairly intense, consisting of two different types: a dance try-out and a singing, acting try-out. Not mention, it was crucial to attend workshops to learn music from the chosen show and an audition dance.

This past year's show was the Roger and Hammerstein classic, State Fair. I was very excited because I believed that I could possibly be chosen for a large role. I picked an audition song early, researched about the show, and even stretched so that I would be more flexible for auditions. Soon it was time for the dance workshops. The choreographer offered two sessions on consecutive evenings to learn the routine. I arrived early, eager to get started. I spent the rest of the two hours, crammed with sweating bodies, trying to learn the choreography. By the end of the night, I felt fairly confident that I knew the moves well. However, I wanted to be an absolute perfection, so I decided to attend the second clinic.

Like the night before, we began with warm-up and stretches. The choreographer then began to re-teach the combination. I felt fairly smug because I already knew the steps, but I helped my friends who had not already attended. Soon the choreographer split us into smaller groups to perform the routine so that we would have more space in the tiny practice room. I ached in expectation to show off my skills. When the music started, I was "in the zone." Suddenly as the routine approached a series of turns and kicks, the boy next to me stopped, forgetting what came next. I rotate to avoid a collision. Thud! As I fell, I felt a strange and excruciating twist in my right ankle. However, I immediately stood up and stubbornly finished the routine. After the music stopped, I wobbled back to my seat to observe the damage. Something was really wrong. I began to panic as I saw my foot, swelling and puffing over the top of my shoe and I franticly tried to loosen the ties.

Luckily, the dance clinic was soon over and I could go home. I limped down six flights of stairs to get to the exit. When I reached my mother's car, I burst into tears.

"What's wrong, baby?" she worriedly asked.
I simply pointed to my painful and swollen ankle. Her eyes widen at the sight. She spoke:
"Let's go home and put some ice on it. You will be fine; I promise."
"No. Take me to the hospital now!" I cried.
My mother knew that I must be in serious pain if I actually wanted to go to the hospital. So she sped off in record time, coincidentally to the same hospital I was born in. When we arrived, she helped me out of the car, put me in a wheelchair, and pushed me towards the entrance. While she parked, I wheeled myself to the front desk. A very tired nurse sat there.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.
"My ankle!" I hiccupped. He then began to ask me series of questions. Feeling my tears welling up, I held back the sobs. Luckily, my mom enters and finishes the question and filled out all the forms. I rolled into the waiting room and some nurse gave me an ice pack. Apparently, there had been a serious car accident near the hospital and therefore, my ankle was low priority. Sometime around midnight, I was taken to a room and given the usual tests. Eventually, the ER doctor informed me that I probably just had a bad sprain. She gave me extra strength pain medication, some crutches, and sent me home. Later, I would go to a specialist and learn that I had major ligament damage, and that I was lucky I did not need surgery.

Monday was my audition. I showed up exhausted from my crutches, and angry at the inconvenience of my injury. The director of the show immediately hugged me and told me to do best I could. I did not get the large role that I was hoping for. Because it was uncertain when I would walk again, let alone dance, I was a risky choice. Admittedly, I was disappointed, but of course, I understood.

I missed out on a lot that winter. I missed iced skating, cookie baking, and shopping for presents. Because I was so unstable on my crutches and it was dangerous in the snow, I mostly stayed home on my couch when I was not attending school. After spending a month non-weight bearing, I was given an air-cast walking boot and prescribed physical therapy. After a few months of hard work, I was not only walking again, but also dancing-just in time for the musical.

My ankle injury was one of the most painful, frustrating, and inopportune experiences that I have ever had. Like most unpleasant moments in my life, I learned a lot from the incident. First of all, the injury knocked me down a peg or two. I was so focused on getting that main part and showing off my talents, that I forgot what was truly important. I joined theater not to get the lead roles, but to return to my childhood playfulness and to grow as an individual. Secondly, I learned patience. It was often boring and upsetting to be sitting in my house, while practically everyone I knew was celebrating the holidays. However, I knew that I could not push my body to heal quicker than it already was. So, I made the best of what I had. I knitted my mother a scarf, began writing poetry again, and before I knew it, I could walk again. Lastly, I truly learned how much love surrounds me. I cannot ever forget the care of my friends as they carried all my books, gave me piggyback rides when my arms were tired, and visited me over break. My teachers were equally thoughtful as they gave me extensions for my vicodin-clogged mind and let me rest in their classrooms. Most importantly, my family paid such great attention to include me, and make sure I was happy as possible. Without these people, I am not sure if I would have made it through those difficult months.

It is almost December again, which means one thing. This year's musical is Hairspray and I am excited for all the opportunities to dance in the production. I probably will not start preparing until the week before that auditions and I will only go to one of the dance workshops-just in case.