Undergraduate / (mess on my desk) roommate essay + (my apologies) five words that describe you [6]

A few of my Stanford supplements, presented out of order. I'm having difficulty choosing between my two roommate essays, which are similar but still different.

* * *

Dear roommate,

Please don't throw away the mess on my desk. I realize that it's a bit of an eyesore at the moment. Once I've finished assembling everything, we'll be able to have a picnic in the park! You bring the sandwiches - make mine vegan, please! - and I'll bring the plates and utensils in my suitcase.

It won't be just a suitcase, however. I'm attaching some foldable leg joints, so it can stand up like a table. And I'm disassembling some computer speakers - that's what all those wires are - to turn the whole thing into a portable music player.

Speaking of music, I'm going to be performing a tribute to Duke Ellington with that band I formed last week. You know, the one I formed with that Philosophy major and the Math major. We're calling ourselves "Forever Jung." That, or "Kant Touch This." The Math major didn't get any say.

You should come, it's going to be loads of fun. We're going to do a midnight demonstration after the show, to rally for universal healthcare and equal education for all. I'm not promising anything, but we might also make a few jokes at the Tea Party's expense. Just a few. All in good taste, of course. Hey, and maybe you can bring those speakers-in-a-suitcase!

Love, your roommate.

PS: The computer speakers were yours. Sorry about that. You can choose the music.

* * *

Dear future roommate:

I humbly offer my apologies. I haven't done anything yet, but believe you me, I will.

If you ever find that I have hijacked your computer speakers, I apologize. I probably reconfigured them into a suitcase to forge a portable set of speakers. I would like to say sorry in advance for the late-night runs to the hardware store, and the heaps of screws and bolts lying around as a result.

My alarm is set to ring obnoxiously and repeatedly at 5:30 AM in the morning, every morning. Whether I wake up promptly is dubious. I have the incredible ability to sleep through nearly anything. I may have also hidden it in the back of the closet, so one of us will be forced to get up and turn it off manually.

You will learn to sail, or at least accompany me on my sails. You will know the difference between port and starboard. You will know that sailing by the lee is dangerous. "All hands on deck" will become a regular greeting between us.

If you return one day from class and find your solid, sturdy dorm bed and desk replaced with spindly furniture with names like Pax and Bjork, you can blame me and my completely un-ironic love for IKEA. I will drag you there every weekend. You will be proficient in Swedish by the end of the year. You may twitch uncontrollably whenever you encounter meatballs.

I may sing Frank Sinatra songs in my sleep. This is normal. I may also attempt to hold conversations and debates with you, all while asleep. If my parents' books are correct, this is my subconscious speaking. Feel free to converse with it, but take nothing it says seriously.

As long as you heed these warnings, I am certain we will have an excellent first year together!

Love, Nimitha.

* * *

Five words: Which one is best?

1) I am secretly a wizard
2) Hogwarts sent me a letter
3) Amateur inventor, music enthusiast, Francophile
4) I might occasionally break the rules
5) Might be numerically disinclined and

Thank you for your advice in advance.

Undergraduate / Two different Common App essays -- love for reading & my father [6]

Essay #1:

My father has probably shaped me as a person more than anyone else I know. We are very similar in personality - stubborn, strongly opinionated, and argumentative - and so clash very often. But it is he who instilled in me my love of reading. While other little girls were read watered-down tales from Charles Perrault about glass-slippered damsels, my father read to me from the Brothers Grimm, from Douglas Adams, from James Joyce's little-known children's book, The Cat and The Devil.

He is the one who taught me to appreciate everything, even things of which I was not particularly fond. I may not aspire to be a physicist, for example, but I have nothing but respect for and can speak at length about Richard Feynman and his contributions to society. He taught me to love foreign languages. Our movie nights consisted of us watching Akira Kurosawa and Federico Fellini dramas. We sang along, however poorly, to Italian operettas and to the soundtracks of old Hindi films. Because of him, I can appreciate a good game of soccer, and, after dissecting every Bond movie ever made, know how to best escape a hostage situation using only a Rolex and a deft pair of hands.

My father inspired me to study philosophy, to cook fine French food, to appreciate a well-written thank you note. He taught me that a wise man has at least forgotten Latin, to never shake someone's hand sitting down, and to never miss the team photo - "not pictured" is no way to go through life. He is an artist, a scientist, an extraordinarily funny character, a thinker, and if I ended up being one-tenth of the person he is today, I think that would be an achievement, indeed.

I know I could elaborate on this. If anything, I have trouble staying under the word limit, so stretching this would not be a problem. This is the basic model I am going for.

Essay #2:

If I learned one thing from the seven-odd years I spent religiously watching Arthur, it was that having fun isn't hard when you've got a library card. Thus, when I initially began researching prospective colleges, the first thing I looked into was the library - how big it was, the diversity of its collection of books, the comfort level of its armchairs, and so on. This may seem like a fairly narrow-minded method of choosing schools, but then again, this is the girl who looked more forward to poring over the Scholastic Book Club's monthly catalogs than flipping through Cosmo Girl, the girl whose idea of exciting teenage rebellion was hiding in the stacks at the local university's library while they kicked out all the non-students, just so I could spend more time with the mountain of books I had lovingly gathered.

The printed word has long captivated me, even before I could grasp its significance. As a child just learning to read, I would trace my fingers over the text wonderingly, taking comfort in the reassuring serif font of Read with Dick and Jane. The book fairs held by the local libraries took far more precedent in my seven-year-old mind over even Christmas, and by ten, I had learned that offering to help out granted me a good four to five hours alone with the treasure trove of offerings before the crowds arrived en masse. My fellow volunteers were all several years older than I, usually high schoolers in need of community service hours who couldn't fathom why I would give up Saturday morning cartoons to sort through heaps of old books. These were, after all, the days before delightfully modern advances such as the DVR had come along, and cartoons were one of the few ways my classmates could unwind after a stressful week of long division and verb conjugations.

However, I had my own method of dealing with the trials and tribulations of elementary schools. The bevy of knowledge to be gained from a good book was astounding. While my peers eagerly allowed Clarissa to explain it all, I learned about feline psychology from T. S. Eliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats, while Erwin Strauss taught me everything I needed to know about starting my own country. All of this information came at little to no cost to me, other than the odd late fee and the occasional missed episode of Daria.

This also needs a little something at the end.

All of your advice is much appreciated!