Undergraduate / Common App Essay: The Morning of Foamy Tears [6]

Hi, I feel like this essay would work for the Common App's Prompt #1 but I'm not really sure. And I reeeaaally want to get into Stony Brook or University of Buffalo. My college english teacher told me I had a funny writing voice after our first two essays so I thought I would take a funny approach to the prompt when writing this.

The Morning of Foamy Tears

I was showering at 6:16 a.m. as I lectured myself on the properties of carboxylic acids and mentally recited Maslow's hierarchy of needs, when suddenly, my eyes suddenly felt the scorching pain of a million balls of fire, burning my retinas to ashes. Foamy tears streamed down my cheeks, and I laughed at myself despite the excruciating pain. No, I was not on the verge of dying- I had simply gotten soap in my eyes.

The mental lecture on functional groups was put on hold as I realized what I'd done. Now, the normal course of action for any other person would've been to immediately rinse the eye with cold water. However, this was virtually impossible in my case for I had a fear of putting anything foreign in my eyes. For this reason, I'd always hated swimming underwater with my eyes open, and I'd have to pat them immediately with a towel after. After years of wearing glasses and worsening eyesight, I refuse to switch from my semi-broken spectacles to contacts; I could never put myself through myself through the anxiety of sticking thin plastic onto my retinas. When I was fifteen, I even cried when my parents attempted to hold me down to put eyedrops into my eyes. So, washing them with water was completely out of the question.

As I struggled to see clearly with bright parallel lights flashing in front of me, I unsuccessfully attempted to place the citrusy face wash back on the rack, causing it to crash into two bottles of conditioner and body wash. At 6:19, my disoriented vision graciously resulted in me slamming my knee into the side of the bathtub, and my foam-covered hands flew up to my face to protect it, idiotically rubbing the chemicals into my pupils. The next minute was spent contemplating the pros and cons of safely washing my eyes out. By 6:21, I was imagining surgery and hospitalization. I could almost feel the tiny microbeads exploding inside my eyelids, and the strong citrusy scented steam was filling the bathroom, reminding me I had once again forgotten to turn on the exhaust fan. My eyes felt like they were on fire, intensely radiating with heat, and with cloudy vision, managed to find my blue towel to pat my eyelids. Obviously, patting them with a towel wasn't going to remove the chemical on the inside; the only solution was to rinse them with cold water, which I childishly refused to do.

The time had finally begun to catch up on me at 6:24, and I realized I had to get out of the shower if I was to make it to the bus on time. At 6:25, I decided against the logical solution and to accept my defeat to a bar of soap. At 6:26, it became clear that letting the soap staying on my eyeballs all day probably wasn't the best idea I've had and I began mentally preparing myself to wash them out. Slowly, as if making a major life-and-death decision, I held my hand under the shower. I brought it closer and closer to my face, until I could see anything in front of me but the water in my hand, then abruptly dumped it onto the floor. I repeated it again, but this time my hand didn't fly away. Time had suddenly slowed down to an agonizing speed, and I felt like I was in a movie. Holding my breath, I proceeded to cup my hand full of water. I dipped my eye in it, the water feeling icy against my pupils, and forced myself to slowly blink three times. My hands instinctively flew to grab my towel and I did not exhale until my eyelids were completely devoid of water. My eyes felt so refreshed and cold, like the sensation of having water on top of mints, and I realized that I did it. I'd finally combatted my childhood fear.

This somewhat traumatic yet interesting experience taught me a very simple lesson in a unique way: A fear is just another hindrance obstructing my view, another barrier straining my focus. Facing them is always hard, whether it is being at heights, killing a spider or speaking in public. It might be uncomfortable, it might even burn, but it's going to burn even more if nothing is done to eradicate it. To this day, I cringe at the idea of having eyedrops in my eyes. I still have to pat my eyes dry immediately after washing them, and am still laughed at for not being able to open them underwater. Forcing myself to rinse the soap out of my eyes was a certain step towards destroying this fear, though, and I'm grateful for the day I pathetically cried foamy tears in the bathtub.

Undergraduate / College Essay: Painting a Pot to Perfection [3]

CA Prompt #1: Some students have a background, identity, interest or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story (500-650 word limit).

I need help shortening it just a little bit (it's like 660 words) and editing/revising.

As forty-two pairs of hands in the local temple's summer camp concentrated on transforming mundane terractta pots, I mindlessly refilled foam paint trays and controlled the demanding glitter supply, thousands of ideas swirling through my head. I was constantly giving the campers ideas if they needed help with their pots, but was unable instruct myself on beautifying my own.

After cleaning the mess, I finally sat down on the floor with my own terracotta pot, determined to "beautify" it during the allotted counselors' break time. Trying to create the perfect color, I spent at least ten minutes just mixing acrylic paints. The wet blob on my tray transitioned from vomit-like brown to burgundy to a pretty auburn, though none of the shades reflected the one I had in mind. I soon gained an audience of several counselors and campers as I continued to work in my little world. As nineteen pairs of eyes stared on, I finally smiled at the color I created: light crimson, the perfect background for the design already painting itself inside my head.

I dipped the smallest paintbrush in yellow, and to my horror, it splattered a huge yellowish brown dot on my beautifully painted pot. I frantically covered it with the leftover crimson paint, but the bristles of the brush left a wet mark on the already dried pot, creating a frustrating clash of textures. I went over the entire pot again with another coat using a spongy brush, this time dabbing the wet paint over with my finger, creating a slightly rough texture and evening out the paint.

At last, the entire pot was neatly covered in dried paint; the border, smoothly painted pistachio green, created a pretty contrast to the rest of the pot, colored a roughly textured crimson. Thirty paintbrushes and sponges sat in a large bucket in front of me, though none were able to accomplish what I had in mind. Not losing heart, I rummaged through an old cabinet, and returned with a short, stubby pencil. The look on everyone's face shifted from confusion to awe as I dipped it in paint and began delineating the flowers. With my eyebrows creased in concentration and thirty-eight eyes fixed on me, I used the eraser tip to dot eight perfect, bright yellow circles in a stagger on the pink background and white ones around the green border. After releasing a breath I hadn't known I was holding, I continued with the pencil tip to create tiny petals. My alternative tool had proved quite successful and I continued to use it, dipping the stubby pencil tip in leafy green paint to connect each of the flowers with thin vines. The lead began drawing lightly on the rough crimson paint, though, and it took almost fifteen minutes of dipping and lightly painting the vines to complete them. Finally, after scrutinizing every single detail multiple times, I decided I was satisfied.

The campers gawked in admiration at the drying pot while the other teen counselors shook their head in disbelief, not understanding why I wasted my hour-long break to perfect the little pot, telling me it could've just taken twenty minutes, not ninety, to make it look good. I told them good wasn't enough, perfect was. This mentality of perfection is reflected in almost everything I do. Whether it's a chore given by my parents or a project assigned in school, I've always put my best effort into each of my tasks. My habit of constant perfection is not only complimented by others, but also gives me the self-satisfaction I always crave. The truth is that I fear the flaws that will appear in my work if it does not reflect my ultimate potential, whether anyone notices them or not. Sometimes, the work I've done to perfect something has been acknowledged, and sometimes, it hasn't, but I can never sleep at night knowing I have given something less than my best.