Hi! I was assigned to write a personal essay with clear diction and that should be uniquely stylized. Plus my teacher hinted at using these for extra attaments for college applications. I would love to hear any sort of comments. Please don't hold back, for I am not very sensitive. Here's my go at it :
I am a slab of dough waiting to be baked in the Wonder Bread factory.
I started just like any loaf: mostly flour, yeast, eggs, a bit of salt, and water (Let's not mention all those preservatives. It is a little embarrassing to us loaves.). My life began in an enormous mixing bowl. The baker dumped my guts into this bowl and then lifted down two stainless claws to activate me. It was a muddling beginning-being blended, torn apart, and then somehow forming back together.
After my birth, I am dumped into a giant trough. I am neither alone nor scared, for I have a have a large family of future loaves. We are bonded as one ton of dough, rising as the space around us warms. We rely on each other. For if one part of the network is unusable, we all fail and are thrown out. Unlike some, my family is strong and we will be taken to the next process. But for now, we are comforted in the heat and swell with potential.
Next we must be kneaded. This is the most frightening position for loaves. The baker and his machine crash into us, pounding, bruising. Wave after wave, we are beaten down. We are not allowed to rest and are powerless against the ungodly machine. I feel battered and terribly tired, but the baker doesn't seem to notice nor care. Eventually he relents. The other loaves and I are distanced from each other due to the kneading. We are all a bit embarrassed by the way we accepted this beating without fighting back. Slowly we turn back towards each other, humbled. We bond back together to mend the tears and holes in our little network. We are a strong, sticky mass and we leave the kneading process only temporarily deflated.
Subsequently, I am parted from my family. We are placed into a gleaming machine that dismembers us from each other (At the rate of 192 loaves a minute, I am told). I am suddenly alone, thrusted into a new area in which I had never been. I speed uncontrollable down the conveyor belt. I gaze franticly around for any sense of normalcy. Finally I am deposited on a large tray, surrounded by hundreds of other balls of dough. I am told that I am waiting to be baked, waiting for my new life as a loaf to begin.
I am afraid, so very terrified, that the baker somehow messed up on me. I'm frightened that some integral piece of me is missing and that I won't be wanted. What happens then? After my arduous journey, am I simply to be thrown out? Besides, what happens if I do bake correctly? Will my short life only consist of being packaged in the bag with polka dots, only distinguishable by the color of my twist tie (Red, for I am to be baked on a Thursday)? Will I simply sit on a shelf in a local grocery store, waiting for my inevitable death?
I am a slab of dough waiting to be baked in the Wonder Bread factory. I am lingering with hundreds of others who are identical to me. We have the same stories and are made out of the same parts. Here's a secret: I hate this factory. I despise that the baker made us indistinguishable, interchangeable. For I am not the same as every other loaf, I have creases and indentations that make me unique. But as I sit here on this tray, I realize I have only one fate. I was made to be baked, and baked I must be. The timer buzzes and I realize it is my turn. Soon I will graduate from this wretched factory and enter the 'real world.'
I am a loaf of bread from the Wonder Bread Factory. I am finally done waiting.
I am a slab of dough waiting to be baked in the Wonder Bread factory.
I started just like any loaf: mostly flour, yeast, eggs, a bit of salt, and water (Let's not mention all those preservatives. It is a little embarrassing to us loaves.). My life began in an enormous mixing bowl. The baker dumped my guts into this bowl and then lifted down two stainless claws to activate me. It was a muddling beginning-being blended, torn apart, and then somehow forming back together.
After my birth, I am dumped into a giant trough. I am neither alone nor scared, for I have a have a large family of future loaves. We are bonded as one ton of dough, rising as the space around us warms. We rely on each other. For if one part of the network is unusable, we all fail and are thrown out. Unlike some, my family is strong and we will be taken to the next process. But for now, we are comforted in the heat and swell with potential.
Next we must be kneaded. This is the most frightening position for loaves. The baker and his machine crash into us, pounding, bruising. Wave after wave, we are beaten down. We are not allowed to rest and are powerless against the ungodly machine. I feel battered and terribly tired, but the baker doesn't seem to notice nor care. Eventually he relents. The other loaves and I are distanced from each other due to the kneading. We are all a bit embarrassed by the way we accepted this beating without fighting back. Slowly we turn back towards each other, humbled. We bond back together to mend the tears and holes in our little network. We are a strong, sticky mass and we leave the kneading process only temporarily deflated.
Subsequently, I am parted from my family. We are placed into a gleaming machine that dismembers us from each other (At the rate of 192 loaves a minute, I am told). I am suddenly alone, thrusted into a new area in which I had never been. I speed uncontrollable down the conveyor belt. I gaze franticly around for any sense of normalcy. Finally I am deposited on a large tray, surrounded by hundreds of other balls of dough. I am told that I am waiting to be baked, waiting for my new life as a loaf to begin.
I am afraid, so very terrified, that the baker somehow messed up on me. I'm frightened that some integral piece of me is missing and that I won't be wanted. What happens then? After my arduous journey, am I simply to be thrown out? Besides, what happens if I do bake correctly? Will my short life only consist of being packaged in the bag with polka dots, only distinguishable by the color of my twist tie (Red, for I am to be baked on a Thursday)? Will I simply sit on a shelf in a local grocery store, waiting for my inevitable death?
I am a slab of dough waiting to be baked in the Wonder Bread factory. I am lingering with hundreds of others who are identical to me. We have the same stories and are made out of the same parts. Here's a secret: I hate this factory. I despise that the baker made us indistinguishable, interchangeable. For I am not the same as every other loaf, I have creases and indentations that make me unique. But as I sit here on this tray, I realize I have only one fate. I was made to be baked, and baked I must be. The timer buzzes and I realize it is my turn. Soon I will graduate from this wretched factory and enter the 'real world.'
I am a loaf of bread from the Wonder Bread Factory. I am finally done waiting.
