<p>@BliggityBlue: I really like yours! Clear and humorous!
@shandsy7: I am a huge fan of C.S. Lewis too! A bit surprise to see Narnia here but WELL DONE!</p>
<p>I’m really insecure about this essay, but here’s my essay for Where is Waldo! I got accepted EA btw:</p>
<p>He appears in my dreams, his clenched fists exuding an aura of alertness, his eyes set squarely on the snow-topped peak. Adeptly scaling the Herculean slopes, he seems unfettered by the chilling pockets of wind that roll down to meet him. His feet rhythmically scrape across the powdery surface, issuing the only recognizable sound in the vicinity of his steady ascent. Suddenly, he encounters a patch of deceptive security; losing his balance, he catches a glint of the devilish ice out of the corner of his eye. The clatter of his karabiner across the rocky mountain side pierces through serenity of his approaching conquest. Just as soon as the cacophonous disruption echoes off of neighboring summits, his hand flies to his waist. Releasing the cold steel from its sheath, he drives the saving blade into the mountainside. An audible thud ensures his safety. Completely unaffected by the near encounter with Death, he carries on with his trek up the imperious height, once again on even ground with the mountain Lords.
Another night, I find him kneeling on the muddied floor of a canopied rainforest. A sliver of sunlight manages to pervade the thick, green cover, revealing a focused countenance. He seems intent on tracking something – his hands gently probe the earthen hide. Intrigued by a clump of crushed leaves, he brings it to his nose. The familiar scent leaves a coy smile on his face. His nemesis is near. He deftly sprints through the wooded maze, occasionally coming to his knees to reorient himself on his path. Passing apes and birds overhead seem to point him in the right direction; a silent understanding is exchanged as the creatures perceive him as one of their own. Suddenly, a thundering roar shakes the forest, as life forms of all shapes and sizes scurry away from the noise. He is elated; his pace quickens as he fearlessly seeks out the source of this royal snore. Peering through the foliage, he sees a clearing bathed in sunlight. At the center is a boulder. Atop this monster of stone lies a King, whose golden cape contends with the Sun. As the intruder steps into the light, the King takes notice – he senses a challenge. The two warriors tense. Their strength at odds, terrible beauty unfolds. His primal rage unleashed, he becomes one with the life-force of the forest.
I’ve searched for this Waldo, this wild man, in myself from time to time. My yearning for oneness with nature is muffled by the structure of civilization, by my inability to release myself from societal constructs. Ear splitting harbingers of another tiring day awake me from my unfinished slumber. Bright lights and honking horns disrupt my daily commute. High pitched bells toll the end of classes, signaling robotic students to head to a different holding room. The electronic voice of some “Wiz Khalifa” alerts me of a fellow robot’s desire to communicate, that to via a glorified rock rather than in person. The overbearing monotony and mechanization of daily life often leaves me with an insatiable urge to relieve myself of the stresses of a “human” life; vivid thoughts of climbing trees, skydiving, and riding the currents of a waterfall fill my mind. Perhaps these reveries of visceral interactions with nature and my idealized man of the wild “Waldo” will forever be relegated the realm of dreams. I refuse to allow such a tragedy to transpire. However brief, I will find moments of respite in which to immerse myself in the steady flow of nature. Escaping from the hustle and bustle of civilization, I will find Waldo. Perhaps he’ll be sitting cross legged atop a cliff, gazing off into the horizon. Or maybe he’ll be exploring the explosion of color that is a coral reef. Wherever he may be, I will find and befriend him. Learn his ways. Become him.</p>
<p>I’m finding these essays interesting. I’m just a little concerned as to how many students come across as extremely bummed out…</p>
<p>Accepted EA 
here’s my essay describing the relationship between my arch-nemesis and me; written to my arch-nemesis:</p>
<p>Dear Time,</p>
<p>You are without the slightest sliver of doubt my arch-nemesis.</p>
<p>My main point of contention in our relationship is your unreliability. For instance, whenever I am confronted with a new assignment, you tease me with lengthy concepts of weeks and months, only to abruptly pounce upon me mere hours before the deadline. Try as I may, you have a sadistic ability to send me spiraling into the perils of procrastination. It is a vicious cycle accompanied by the reckless ticking of a clock, its hands propelled by your unrelenting linear force.</p>
<p>I fruitlessly attempt to manage you with intricate calendars, schedules, and iPhone reminders, but just when I think I have you under my reins, you buck wildly again as I startle to realize that I am swiftly running out of you. “Stop, please! Slow down!” I will beseech, yet you, of all people, wait for no one. You are ruthless. Somehow there never seems to be the desired amount of you in a day. </p>
<p>Here lies another source of my discontent: your paradoxical nature. Why do you sprint away when I call you, but overstay your welcome when I politely ask (or beg) you to leave? Why must my delightful day curled up with a book slip through my fingers like sand through an hourglass, but my hour of housework is an eternity? </p>
<p>You are particularly unkind to me on school mornings, when, through blurred, heavy eyes, I see your bright red, glaring A.M. face on my alarm clock. “Five more minutes?” I entreat, groping for the snooze button, but you mercilessly force me out of my happy slumber with a blaring alarm regardless.</p>
<p>I cannot fathom what I have done for you to be so cruel. At the tender age of five, I was introduced to you with a shiny, pink Mickey Mouse watch. I worked tirelessly to get to know you in hopes of making you a friend. Unlike most kindergarten friendships, I couldn’t win you over with cookies or crayons, but I industriously learned your mysterious methods of the clock. Twelve numbers. Two hands. Twenty-four hours in a day. Sixty minutes in an hour. Sixty seconds in a minute. Despite your erratic, nonsensical ways, I thought it was the inception of a lovely lifelong friendship. I consider myself an affable type; I would like to think that I can mesh with most anyone. Why must you be set on proving me wrong? </p>
<p>Now, you brusquely arrest my attention as I encounter my final days of high school. Where have you gone, Time? On the first day of freshman year, I felt as though you were infinite, but somehow you have dissolved into milky memories and imminent deadlines. Suddenly you cackle in my face with yearbook presales and class rings and—who could forget?—college applications! On your particularly incensed days, you heave me into existential despair. Over sixty more years of dealing with you? (The projected life expectancy in the United States is around eighty.) Oh, that is far too much time to put up with your fiendish mannerisms yet also nowhere near enough! </p>
<p>And, so it seems, Time, that although you may be my arch-nemesis, my existence is invariably dependent upon you. What is light without darkness? Who is Batman without the Joker? This enigmatic love-hate relationship will have to endure.</p>
<p>I was rejected EA, but I spent forever on the essay so I’m posting it here anyways where it might be of some use. Waldo prompt.</p>
<hr>
<p>I am standing at a busy fair, everyone and everything around me a whirl of bright technicolor. A young man in a red striped shirt is a small distance before me.</p>
<p>“Who are you?” But I already know, this place is the first drawing I’ve seen of him.</p>
<p>“Waldo, miss. Well, I also go by Wally, Walter, Weili and the rest.”</p>
<p>Finally finding him is less triumphant than I hoped. The hunt always begins anew over and over until the book ends, and then I realize it means nothing and lasts for only a moment. Someone else made this up and set the goal so why should it mean anything? “So where are you? On the next page I mean.”</p>
<p>“It is not me, technically. I am merely a concept that exists in the minds of those who know me. You are asking for my two-dimensional visual representation, which should be around the bottom left part of the plane defined by the image. If you mean a physical entity ink for instance, I am mixed in-between and inside the paper’s plant cells, and everywhere in the world my book sells .”</p>
<p>“For… things like this, shouldn’t we assume that you’re sentient and have your own universe? I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”</p>
<p>“It’ll take a lot more than that. By the way, for your definition I’d be in the Middle Ages, to the left of the big castle.”</p>
<p>“No, with that definition you’d be in front of me.”</p>
<p>“Well, your question was about the next page.”</p>
<p>“But I asked where are you. Present tense. You’re here with me.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps, but who’s to say I don’t exist at both places simultaneously?”</p>
<p>" That page is in the Middle Ages, you said it yourself, but this place should be around 1945. At the present time, should we define it by your universe, you can only be here. Only in my universe do you exist at all places simultaneously."</p>
<p>“Your question presupposed I am on the next page.”</p>
<p>“No, my question presupposed we were using your ‘visual representation’ definition. You just went off on a philosophical tangent on your own.” </p>
<p>“Miss, philosophical tangents are the most fun and crucial things in the world. And, in that case your question was lacking specificity from the start. To ask where I am, you must first define who I am.”</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>“Okay, where do you think you are then? If your universe isn’t real, then what does it matter? If everything you know is made up, whats the point?”</p>
<p>“Do you know Zhuangzi’s riddle, miss? Zhuangzi dreams he is a butterfly a beautiful dream for sure, but then he wakes up. Is he Zhuangzi? Or is he the butterfly who is dreaming he’s Zhuangzi? I think if you don’t know for sure, you can choose what makes you happy. I choose to live as if I’m really at a fair. Society is a construct; reality is a construct, and both may seem pointless to you right now. Find out who you are define yourself first, miss. And then the meaning of where you are and where you want to be will come naturally. They don’t matter as much… I trust that is what you truly want to ask?”</p>
<hr>
<p>I got accepted (somehow) EA for the waldo prompt</p>
<p>Here goes:</p>
<p>Waldo, traveler extraordinaire and connoisseur of red striped rugby shirts, explored the entirety of the world, encountered fantastic beasts and peoples… all while ripping through the very current of time and space. The man needed to satisfy a maniacal drive towards the new and unknown. He set the world aflame with his remarkable photography of settings from across reality. Be it on the fringes of fantasy or the midst of a medieval battlefield, Waldo and his entourage of similarly dressed cohorts found no realm too extravagant and no moment too dangerous. The world adored him: children aspired to be like him and parents admired him.
How strange, then, that Waldo is lost to us. This monument of a man, who transcended physical boundaries and grasped the whole of creation in the palm of his hand, cannot be found anywhere on Earth. Pictures of him cover the globe, so there is ample evidence that a traveler named Waldo once roamed this planet. Where is he, then? Over the past 30 years, Waldo’s fans have traversed the globe, hoping to find him and understand why or even how he traveled as much as he did. Looking for Waldo meant scaling the highest mountains, going down the deepest holes, navigating through the stars, and even peering into the gaps between atoms- always to no avail. So where is the red-striped traveler?
Some went on to propose that he is everywhere- which is clearly unreasonable. Others proposed that he is nowhere- when we checked, all we found was “Schrodinger’s cat.” The world simply kept looking. For whatever reason, despite so many failures, interest in him never faded. The day did come when someone took the time to ask “Why do we look for Waldo?” And when they did, the world fell silent.
The search for Waldo is as natural as breathing. When we scan his convoluted pictures, spending hours under some dim light, the search for Waldo dominates our thoughts and minds. Like those soft hours spent chatting with old friends, so too does time melt when looking for Waldo. Regardless of that bond, dwelling on Waldo continually lead people to question more and more the logic of the search for Waldo. Like a carefully placed accusation against a good friend, people grew disillusioned with the search. Looking for a man who appeared in pictures of strange lands filled with stranger people suddenly seemed abnormal- even absurd.
For all their doubts, no one lambasted Waldo publicly- through all their speculation, something about him remained near and dear to them. Anyone who truly searched for Waldo associated him with all their achievements- cultural, scientific, political, and beyond. The search for Waldo, when not tempered by doubt and fear, actually drove them towards the unknown. Countless people lived longer, better, and freer from ignorance because the desire to find Waldo put them on a path that invariably lead to self-discovery. Suddenly… eureka!
Everyone realized that asking “Why” mattered as much as asking “Where.” Waldo exists beyond us, so we will never find him. Because we will never find him, we will never know why looking for Waldo takes so much priority… and yet the search continues. Waldo, with his evasiveness, pushes us to look in places that might be too dangerous, or scary or unknown. Waldo wouldn’t be so picky about his hiding place so why should we be picky about where we look? Compelled to search for him, we test the limits of our creativity and potential to explore. Whoever Waldo is, whoever created the myth of Waldo, whoever took the time to spread Waldo’s image- thank you. Because of you, the future has a face, and it has round-rimmed glasses, a fluffy bobble cap, and always smiles.</p>
<p>@kikikaylen</p>
<p>Great essay. I can see why you got accepted :)</p>
<p>So much Waldo. I think I was the only person who posted an invent a past for a present essay.</p>
<p>I just realized I didn’t post my prompt. It was invent a past for a present, too.</p>
<p>This is my optional essay about my favorite books:</p>
<pre><code>When I was six years old and fresh from a failed attempt at Romeo and Juliet (don’t worry, I got around to it later), I picked up Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. There has been a book in my hands or on my brain ever since. “The magic of reading” might be a clich
</code></pre>
<p>@esimpnoxin</p>
<p>Thank you! I’m surprised I haven’t seen more arch-nemesis essays. Apparently everyone loves Waldo!</p>
<p>Fxxm553: I found your essays to be brilliant and uplifting. No wonder UChicago accepted you. I am sitting in a hospital awaiting surgery, and I am lucky to have found your material. Good luck at one of the top universities in the world.</p>
<p>Sent from my ADR6410LVW using CC</p>
<p>@kikikaylen: OMG I wrote about Time in my arch-nemesis essay too !! albeit it was a different take on the topic. It’s heartening to know you got through :P</p>
<p>accepted EA
the topic was about two things not being able to exist together :)~ hope it helps</p>
<p>Friendship and perfection
Very often it is difficult or even impossible for us to have both of the good things at the same time. For instance, people living in the south enjoy warm winters but have to deal with sultry summer days, and those folks living in the northern states have to deal with frigid winter weather but can look forward to cool, pleasant summer nights. People cannot have nice weather all year round unless they can afford to relocate periodically or settle down in the west coast. But even over there people have to worry about earthquakes in California or about bleak, wet winters in Seattle. Similarly, unless I am a genius (which I know Im not), I cannot spend every hour of my weekends having a good time and expect to receive good grades for my schoolwork. I know that I cannot cherish dreams of success and at the same time refuse to work diligently and make some sacrifices at present. Indeed, even true love carries with it certain insecurity: A person cannot experience the ecstasy of love without making herself emotionally vulnerable, for her love for someone may not be reciprocated, or her partners love for her may not be as enduring as she wishes. We have to admit that life is not perfect after all.
Fortunately there is something in our life that is precious and rewarding exactly because of imperfection: Friendship and perfection simply do not get along. Friends accept and tolerate each others flaws and weaknesses. There are moments when our friends take notice of our flaws and turn them into something bearable, humorous, and even facetious. I remember the day when my friends took a strike at my naiveté when they fabricated a story to convince me that chocolate milk came from brown cows. They plotted a scheme, throwing in profound explanations of enzymes and theories of genetics to legitimize their claim. And they found it hilarious when, for a period of time, I appeared to believe what they had told me! Since then, they have tried to reinforce their jabbing with occasional reminders such as a jug of chocolate milk that they handed on my birthday. On it was a label with a picture of a spotted white cow, hardly even white as it was scribbled in with brown marker. At such moments we all exploded in laughter: a symbol of my acceptance of their judgment and their acceptance of my ignorance.
Of course, friendship is about something more than a tacit understanding and humorous acceptance of a friends shortcomings. The true nature of friendship is manifest in a situation in which our peers acknowledge our flaws and accept them better than we do ourselves. I remember that day when my best friend stood on the stage, anxious in her awareness that the musical performance today would be the grandest in her acting career so far. Her eyes wandered to the audience and searched for her group of supporters until they met our reassuring smiles; she was ready to begin. But as she climbed to the climax of her performance, her anxiety got the better of her, and she lost her confidence. Her voice cracked. She faltered, probably thinking her nightmare had come to life. But we overlooked her mistake and nodded at her in encouragement, hoping she would overcome her fear of failure. To our relief, she regained her control, and her performance went on smoothly to the end. Indeed, perfection is like an independent, blooming flower that radiated beauty but stood alone. Imperfections, on the other hand, are disguised fortunes that serve to foster friendship with empathetic emotional interactions. Friendship is not built on perfection. Friendship is nourished by understanding, compassion, and mutual support.<br>
Although it is regrettable that life is not perfect for most of us, we are lucky to have something in our lives that is precious and valuable precisely because it is inseparable from imperfection: Friendship and perfection simply are not compatible. The value of friendship lies in friends tolerance for and understanding of each others imperfection. I dont expect my friends to be perfect, and my friends do not expect me to be perfect, but we derive so much strength and comfort from our very imperfections.</p>
<p>So here’s my supplement essay for the prompt: pick any present you have ever received and invent a past for it. Any feedback and editing will help! Thanks!</p>
<p>Baby Sophia played on the marshmallow-textured carpet in their living room, toys sprawled everywhere. She was surrounded by her parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents who were all uttering cute baby sounds to her. Awwwww! …Oooh oooh ahh ahhhh! …So cute! Look at those bright blue eyes! And those tiny, smooth fingers! said Grandma Ann. I wonder what shell be like when she grows up… will she be more like her mom or her dad?
Out of nowhere, a cousin sitting nearby says, I wonder what those people in her head are doing? Are they teaching her how to talk yet? The room falls silent in astonishment and curiosity of the bizarre statement. Well, is this statement actually bizarre? What if there really were microscopic beings in our minds, angelic creatures who instruct newborn babies of the ways of human life when they enter the world? What if babies didnt learn speech, movements, and the meanings of words through mere observation? What if babies actually had helpers in their heads who in a sense, direct the traffic of sensations?</p>
<p>Back in Sophias head:
Broca and Wernicke are the two language fairies who are in charge of the whole operation.
Hey Broca, were getting a signal! It looks like someone is smiling at Sophia.
Yeah, we should have Sophia smile back. [Broca sends messages to Sophias brain coding for a smile]<br>
"And look, theyre showing her a rubber ducky and saying ducky. Wernicke, add ducky to the list of things we have to teach her next!
Okay, Im on it!
[When the language fairies have a moment to spare, they teach their disciple various words encountered throughout the day.]
[To teach, they use a special signal that is only used for babies. It presents a picture of an object or causes the baby to feel a certain way and sends a particular word sound to the babys brain. Next, a signal is sent which is responsible for associating the two, thus broadening the babys vocabulary.]</p>
<p>Incoming message from Broca and Wernicke: Add the following to todays list of words to teach: toy, finger, food, ball, play, paper, sister, ducky.</p>
<p>Flash forward several months later:
Mom gently leans in towards Sophia, looks her in the eyes with a patient grin beaming, and mouths Mama, trying to get her daughter to repeat.
Then Dad enters, feeling competitive and wanting to have a say on the babys first word, says Dada.
Mom and Dad repeat consecutively, Mama Dada Mama Dada Mama Dada, until the baby is overwhelmed by all the attention and starts sobbing. The language fairies are also confused over what to teach first, Mama or Dada. Broca suggests they teach the baby Mama and is about to send that signal, when Wernicke dashes around the corner saying Dada! Dada!
No! Dont most babies say Mama first? Broca replies, with a hint of hesitation in his voice.
Well, yes, but dads deserve something too. Dads take care of babies and deserve an equal voice as well.
After consulting with the rest of the language fairy team, Broca and Wernicke decide to first teach Sophia Dada.</p>
<p>Language is a gift, and is one of the many presents in life. It enables us to communicate our ideas, feelings, and thoughts with one another and provides a pathway to advancing science and technology. Without language, we would each be in our own isolated world, lacking communication with others.</p>
<p>Brocas area, located in the frontal lobe of the human brain is responsible for speech production, while Wernickes area is in the temporal lobe and responsible for speech comprehension. How exactly do babies acquire the complicated gift of language? Is it because of Brocas area, Wernickes area, or is it due to language fairies? I guess well never know for certain.</p>
<p>@ec1026 I think your essay is amazing! I love how you have descriptive words in almost every single sentence. Also, the times when you helped your friend when she was on stage and when your friends tricked you with that chocolate milk story were comforting and relatable
Great job! No wonder you were accepted!</p>
<p>@ec1026</p>
<p>I really enjoyed your essay! I would have never even thought about the idea of friendship and perfection being ill-suited for one another, but your essay rings very true. </p>
<p>@keya93</p>
<p>I was so surprised that of all the people I talked to about arch-nemesis essays, no one else seemed to have thought of time. It was such an obvious one to me, but I guess I’m just really preoccupied with time, lol. Best of luck with your college search.</p>
<p>Just wondering… is it safe to post essays on here? I’d really like to, but I’m afraid some UChicago admissions officer would hunt it down and accuse me of plagiarizing…myself.</p>
<p>No! It is not safe to post your essays on here BEFORE you submit them. If a counselor reads your essay on here and then reads it in an actual application, that is a big red flag. Only post after you submitted.</p>
<p>That being said, I got accepted EA and will post my ‘Where’s Waldo’ in an edit on Jan 1st after the rest of my apps are submitted.</p>
<p>@AmeliaJPond I would sincerely advise against doing so. It is not the plagiarization of yourself that you should be worried about, but rather that of a mischievous person lurking through these forums.</p>