Undergraduate / "Yet another cooking story." - Yale Essay [15]

Hello everyone! This is my Yale Application Essay. I still have two years until i finish HS, but i think that in order to improve i should start now. I beg you to not sugar coat your objections whatsoever. Be blunt. Thanks beforehand for your time <3

I tried to work on coherence, i have a huge problem with that. My thoughts are scattered as always. Here's an updated version of the essay:

I love to cook. Even though I cook badly.

This stunning discovery struck me when I was 5 years old and my parents described my feather-soup and my sand-cakes, both haute cuisine dishes, as very pretty, tossing them aside the very next second. As a child however I never gave that easily up. Since stories (and mostly TV) had shown me that success is possible through carefully planned persistence, I came up with new recipes: sand-grass-soup with branch garnish, snail-pebble-chowder with lunch leftovers, spit-salad ... and many more. Without obtaining any victory however, I gave up the war. I gave up all my bark medals and carton attestations of my great self. I had grown so much taller.

I decayed into an altered state known as "rebellious adolescents". Rebellious adolescents are basically as creative and daring as children, but they get grounded for their thinking and that's why society prefers to call them ignorant. When I myself was a rebellious adolescent my old belief in my culinary abilities had been shattered, if only for a while. This time it was a certain Gustave, a fat, French chef from a movie with a cooking mouse, Ratatouille, that had enlightened me. Gustave, a mere fictional character, spoke the following wise words: "Everyone can cook." Of course, as a rebellious adolescent my first reaction had to be: "Aw!" The fact that the fat man believed that everyone could and should be doing whatever they felt like doing sounded awesome.

Some years later, after advancing in social hierarchy, I realized that my old discovery had been the right one all along. "Gustave, you liar!" As an aspiring mature person, I wanted to believe that food was something actually edible. Why did I call the fat chef a liar? Well, after all those years, I still couldn't cook. It took me a while to discover this carefully, behind a friendly smile and a white apron, hidden flam.

But maybe I am being a little too harsh on Gustave. Maybe I'm missing the point. Was I too tall now to understand the words of a kids-movie character? Thinking back, the runty general would have cried. "Why don't you cook anymore?"

Remember, dear reader, when you were 5 years old and upon impact with the ground you started to screech like a dying gorgon? Then you must remember that the moment you got up you couldn't care less about your bleeding wounds. Sure, falling on pavement that runs at a fast pace will only hurt your elbows, but if you manage to get up, suddenly you won't mind the injury.

We need to get up, no matter how often or badly we fall. It is only human to fail sometimes. What's unforgivable is to live on without having tried to improve.

Just so you know, I started cooking again.

Poetry / "A cry for love." - poem [5]

This is my second poem so far, so I hope it's not over the top bad. Thanks for reading it and please be brutal!

Once I sighed, twice I moaned, once again I thought of you.
Yet the night's embrace no longer lets me go astray...
As badly as I wish, feelings I cannot subdue.
Yet thoughts, I'd set them free, but it's like they won't obey.

Oh you, once my all, if one more time those words you'd say,
Those secret words only we do know, our bound, our treasure,
I'd forget about this world and into thine I'd sway.
But, oh, I cannot hear your voice! This how could I endure?

Our dream, our world, my love, now grows dimmer in my eyes,
For you are either mute, or I have lost my senses.
Scream, goddess! Cry for me! Our past, ourselves!, do not despise.

I am running towards you, towards that place yonder.
I dare to look upon your face; so cold, so bitter.
"Fall, be gone and die, lover awaiting a wonder."

Writing Feedback / "Mark." - a story research [15]

Hei there everyone!
I would really appreciate it if I could get some criticism on this story, because I truly love this way of writing and I would like to improve. Please, please be brutal. Thank you for reading! :3

If you would ask about what happened, I'd say, I cannot remember precisely.

Ever since he was a kid, Mark has been an asshole. He was the kind of child you'd rather slap than try to reason with. From biting others to swearing, to throwing potatoes at cars and bullying Peggy, he had done it all. He loved to set things on fire. Now, you might expect to hear that his parents didn't accord him enough attention. On the contrary, I tend to believe that it was too much attention that turned him into the obnoxious freak I knew. He had traveled the world and -although it's hard for me to admit- Mark was good with the ladies, for no reason really. He loved to wear bright yellow jackets even though they had been out of fashion for years. From time to time he would consider talking quietly, but usually he'd shout his lungs out. I almost forgot to mention that he was in fact my only friend.

"Looking sharp, ay?"
I used to greet him from afar, this way he got the chance of changing his lines so I wouldn't hear the same answers again and again.

"Trying my best", he murmured. For the first time in a long while, I could witness Mark being nervous. After a brief handshake he stopped to search for his cigarettes.

"Say", he continued while he kept looking, "do you have the invitation at hand?"
"We are indeed late", I assured him.
He was now chewing on the filter while soaking the wet smoke into his lungs. The mist seemed to have taken over the town.
"Why did the bitch have to build her mansion on top of the hill? God-damn it!" Without waiting for my response, Mark started climbing the stairs leading to his

aunt's residence.

I was right behind him, staring intently at his white tuxedo. The jacket was shorter than usual, revealing his firm derriere.
It was he who broke the silence: "I don't even know what the bloody hell I'm doing here."
He had spotted a bench and decided to stop.
"I won't see a penny of her money until I've married."
He coughed and spit on the ground between his feet.
"Don't sit down", he commanded, a smirk on his soft lips, "You'll get dirty!"
I couldn't help but recreate his smile.
"Let's go!"

"You know, marriage ain't so bad."
Mark started to play with the rose bushes that were invading the stairs, gently hitting them as he walked by.
"Says who? The happy husband of the year?"
I couldn't help but notice his derisive tone.
"Why won't you?"
"Why won't I what?"
"Marry."
In an instant he stopped and turned in my direction. He was standing a little higher than me.
"Who would you recommend?" he demanded, his breath, a hot whirl of air and spit, hitting my forehead.
I waited a couple of seconds for him to loosen up while I fixed his hair.
"Think about it", I added, stroking his face with the back of my hand.

Mark stepped back.
"O, boy!"
He turned away. Then he laughed. Then he looked back at me. Laughing.
"So what do you call yourself?"
I let my head slightly hang to a side.
"You like 'em wieners, don't ya?"
"That's not w-what I meant", I stuttered.
He pinched my check, keeping a stupid smile on his face.
"You don't like my attitude, I see", he added seriously without however changing his position, "Well, I won't bend for you."

"That's not what I meant!"
"But what's a girl to do?"
I pushed him back, however he barely lost his balance. His snicker persisted. I watched with the corner of my eye how he turned around and buoyantly jumped over some stairs. I couldn't see his face, but I supposed he was rubbing his nose. He inhaled twice and then decided to sit.

"Boy", -he had put a faded smile on-, "who would have guessed."
I avoided making eye contact.
"You sissy!"
Then I automatically looked towards him. A street lamp stood in the way. Behind the metal pillar I saw him staring at me disgusted. Decided to put an end to this moment, I waked up to him.

"Getting ... impatient, are we?"
He exaggerated every syllable the way all cheap whores would in order to appear more sensual.
"I'm not queer."
He looked away.
"I'm not queer", I calmly repeated putting my hand on his shoulder.
"You are!" he shouted pulling my hand away from him and sitting up. His other hand, now rolled to a fist was aiming for my face. I rapidly hid in a squat, almost falling on the ground. I must have remained like that for a while until a hush of air whispered to my ear.

"Yes, my friend, you're gay."
And there was the laugh again. That laugh I despised. That laugh ... I hated that laugh. I crept out of my carnal shelter and started guessing where he might be. Without really knowing I threw my elbow back hitting Mark in the nadgers. He crashed on the pavement growling hitting his head somewhere in between. Through the misty air, I saw he was hurt. I climbed some stairs up and slammed my foot in his stomach once. He started to cry. Twice.

"Please!"
Every time I hit again he would twitch from side to side.
"You sissy!"
This time he moved so much that he slipped on the stairs. He started rolling quickly down the hill. Afraid of letting my game escape, I ran after him or his body -I couldn't care less if he was dead or alive. It was unbelievable how the bulk of meet was cracking when hitting a stone in its way. I freed the victorious laugh that was pounding between my teeth. I don't know how long I ran like this. However, when I almost reached him, I stumbled, landing on his torso. I rested for a while, the smile still on my lips. I could feel his wet shirt pressing against my chest. I felt no pulse. The pain started to creep back into me while as I stood up. The sour taste of mud and blood filled my mouth.

"Shilit!"
I walked my way back to the stairs.

"Oh my goodness, George! I thought Mark was lying when he said you were here!"
"He made us wait on this cold bench until you would return."
"Mark doesn't lie, ladies! I told you he'd be back. Shall we now, George?"

With two ladies on his hands, Mark was climbing along the tidy path. I followed obediently letting the blood turn to acid on my tongue.