Hi all, I plan on applying ED2 to UChicago, but as always, their infamous creative prompt has me (as well as many other applicants on this website, I'm sure) boggled. I tried reusing an essay I had for another school to fit one of their prompts from this year, but I was recently told by a counselor that I should try to "include a more humanistic side to me" (something about trying to add an element of me helping the greater good? I am totally confused lol), and I personally don't know just how much of this essay I actually would be willing to submit to represent myself to my dream school.
I think my language is a little odd and that the tone reflects more of the stereotypical metaphorical college applicant type of writing style, which I thought I should probably steer away from for UChi, considering that they like more of the creative and quirky type. I have a problem with never being able to write something fully positive about myself (most likely just a self-confidence issue), but I tried to avoid that as much as possible in here; I also think a lot of the content in these paragraphs is never deeply personal - like it's something ANYONE would be able to write (if you know what I mean, it's not wholly unique). I really want to be able to fix these issues if possible, and I know there's a lot more.
So any positive, negative feedback; anything worth noting, any advice - please share your wisdom with me. Sorry for the wordiness of my requests.
Prompt: Pluto, the demoted planet. Ophiuchus, the thirteenth Zodiac. Andy Murray, the fourth to tennis's three. Every grouping has something that doesn't quite fit in. Tell us about a group and its unofficial member, why (or why not) should it be excluded?
Phylum Desserti, Order Macaronae. To be specific, I am at the bottom tier, the lowest echelon of all macarons - Genus Whole Foodus; I'm an imperfect little Whole Foods vanilla macaron.
My squishy shell is a pale off-white, speckled with black flecks from an off-brand "sourced straight from Madagascar" vanilla bean, an off-kilter taste. I come from an odd batter whipped together in haste, probably the last remnants of whatever that overworked, underpaid Whole Foods baker managed to scrape into a bowl. The recipe is an uneven concoction: a generous heap of sugar (symbolizing my crippling Monster energy drink addiction), a fiery dash of spice (embodying my borderline masochistic craving for spicy Buldak ramen), and an inexplicably heavy dose of nothing nice (a nod to my chronic inability to losing weight).
I'm far from the epitome of dessert perfection, and sometimes, I find myself comparing my lackluster self to those far more refined creations. There are croquembouches, towering with elegance; baklavas, rich with layers of cultural and culinary depth; and meringues, effortlessly airy and delightful. These desserts seem like the aristocracy of the Phylum Desserti, while I dwell at the humble foot of the food chain. Yet my darkest moments don't arise from comparing myself to such grand confections. Instead, they come when I size myself up against others of my kind - namely, the Trader Joe's vanilla macarons.
The Trader Joe's version is the polished, cutesy darling of the macaron world, charming in presentation and taste. Next to her, I'm an unremarkable little shell filled with too much doubt and too little willpower. Among my peers, there is always someone smarter, skinnier, and successful-er. Someone whose almond flour was sifted finer, whose meringue achieved the perfect glossy peaks, or whose filling is balanced to perfection. These comparisons whisk me into a dark swirl of coffee bitterness and 95% cacao despair, where every self-reflection feels like a crumbly defeat.
And yet, despite my ever-perpetual inner turmoil, there's an undeniable fact that gives me pause: people still like me. Against all odds, there are customers who willingly slide open that frosty freezer door and select the over-packaged, overpriced box of Whole Foods vanilla macarons. The sight of never a full stock reminds me that, for some inexplicable reason, I appeal to someone. There's an audience out there, however niche, whose taste buds find joy in my existence.
Maybe these people appreciate an offbeat, imperfect sweetness that other desserts lack. Perhaps they enjoy the subtle speckles of vanilla that others dismiss or find comfort in the predictability of something unremarkable. It's a humbling thought - that my flaws, the very things that make me feel lesser, might actually be the qualities someone out there seeks.
So what if I can't shed the shiny plasticky Whole Foods label that clings to me like a badge of mediocrity? So what if I'll never transform into the cutesy Trader Joe's equivalent, the one whose Instagrammable appeal I envy? I might not be the dessert of choice for every sweet tooth, but I'm still someone's indulgence.
Perhaps the lesson here isn't in becoming better or more refined but in learning to accept myself, imperfections and all. I can befriend my Trader Joe's counterpart without needing to emulate her. I can exist as I am - not perfect, not extraordinary, but good enough in my own squishy-shell way.
So, while I may never be the top-tier dessert or even the standout vanilla macaron, I'll continue to exist, one freezer box at a time. And maybe, just maybe, I can learn from those who choose me - embracing the idea that sweetness isn't universal but beautifully subjective.
I think my language is a little odd and that the tone reflects more of the stereotypical metaphorical college applicant type of writing style, which I thought I should probably steer away from for UChi, considering that they like more of the creative and quirky type. I have a problem with never being able to write something fully positive about myself (most likely just a self-confidence issue), but I tried to avoid that as much as possible in here; I also think a lot of the content in these paragraphs is never deeply personal - like it's something ANYONE would be able to write (if you know what I mean, it's not wholly unique). I really want to be able to fix these issues if possible, and I know there's a lot more.
So any positive, negative feedback; anything worth noting, any advice - please share your wisdom with me. Sorry for the wordiness of my requests.
Prompt: Pluto, the demoted planet. Ophiuchus, the thirteenth Zodiac. Andy Murray, the fourth to tennis's three. Every grouping has something that doesn't quite fit in. Tell us about a group and its unofficial member, why (or why not) should it be excluded?
Phylum Desserti, Order Macaronae. To be specific, I am at the bottom tier, the lowest echelon of all macarons - Genus Whole Foodus; I'm an imperfect little Whole Foods vanilla macaron.
My squishy shell is a pale off-white, speckled with black flecks from an off-brand "sourced straight from Madagascar" vanilla bean, an off-kilter taste. I come from an odd batter whipped together in haste, probably the last remnants of whatever that overworked, underpaid Whole Foods baker managed to scrape into a bowl. The recipe is an uneven concoction: a generous heap of sugar (symbolizing my crippling Monster energy drink addiction), a fiery dash of spice (embodying my borderline masochistic craving for spicy Buldak ramen), and an inexplicably heavy dose of nothing nice (a nod to my chronic inability to losing weight).
I'm far from the epitome of dessert perfection, and sometimes, I find myself comparing my lackluster self to those far more refined creations. There are croquembouches, towering with elegance; baklavas, rich with layers of cultural and culinary depth; and meringues, effortlessly airy and delightful. These desserts seem like the aristocracy of the Phylum Desserti, while I dwell at the humble foot of the food chain. Yet my darkest moments don't arise from comparing myself to such grand confections. Instead, they come when I size myself up against others of my kind - namely, the Trader Joe's vanilla macarons.
The Trader Joe's version is the polished, cutesy darling of the macaron world, charming in presentation and taste. Next to her, I'm an unremarkable little shell filled with too much doubt and too little willpower. Among my peers, there is always someone smarter, skinnier, and successful-er. Someone whose almond flour was sifted finer, whose meringue achieved the perfect glossy peaks, or whose filling is balanced to perfection. These comparisons whisk me into a dark swirl of coffee bitterness and 95% cacao despair, where every self-reflection feels like a crumbly defeat.
And yet, despite my ever-perpetual inner turmoil, there's an undeniable fact that gives me pause: people still like me. Against all odds, there are customers who willingly slide open that frosty freezer door and select the over-packaged, overpriced box of Whole Foods vanilla macarons. The sight of never a full stock reminds me that, for some inexplicable reason, I appeal to someone. There's an audience out there, however niche, whose taste buds find joy in my existence.
Maybe these people appreciate an offbeat, imperfect sweetness that other desserts lack. Perhaps they enjoy the subtle speckles of vanilla that others dismiss or find comfort in the predictability of something unremarkable. It's a humbling thought - that my flaws, the very things that make me feel lesser, might actually be the qualities someone out there seeks.
So what if I can't shed the shiny plasticky Whole Foods label that clings to me like a badge of mediocrity? So what if I'll never transform into the cutesy Trader Joe's equivalent, the one whose Instagrammable appeal I envy? I might not be the dessert of choice for every sweet tooth, but I'm still someone's indulgence.
Perhaps the lesson here isn't in becoming better or more refined but in learning to accept myself, imperfections and all. I can befriend my Trader Joe's counterpart without needing to emulate her. I can exist as I am - not perfect, not extraordinary, but good enough in my own squishy-shell way.
So, while I may never be the top-tier dessert or even the standout vanilla macaron, I'll continue to exist, one freezer box at a time. And maybe, just maybe, I can learn from those who choose me - embracing the idea that sweetness isn't universal but beautifully subjective.
