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.
