<p>I had to withdraw my app… but my “extended essay” began like this:</p>
<p>"How many Mexicans does it take to change a light bulb?</p>
<p>Just Juan."</p>
<p>Thanks everyone! I thought not, but I wanted to make sure.</p>
<p>We look forward to reading your essay after this year’s submission process is over :)</p>
<p>@kikikaylen: It came to me almost instantly, though when I discussed the idea with some friends, they didn’t find it that appealing. When the completed essay was shown to them, they were quite surprised it turned out that way! I’d love to post my essay, but I’m a bit worried about plagiarism.
I will post my essay here once admissions decisions are out :)</p>
<p>Is it much of a problem if my Why UChicago essay is bigger than the extended essay? :S I mean I had plenty of reasons for choosing UChicago and my essay turned out to be about 750 words long!!! OMG. Am I in trouble?</p>
<p>Sitting outside the Robotics lab writing a tutorial on computer aided machining, the day was like any other. Then, the possibility of a great find presented itself when I noticed an e-mail alert that in an instant altered my entire summer plans. Attached was a job offer from <em>Censored</em>. Apparently they were missing some Waldos. Fueled by a righteous need to prove myself a productive member of society and finally give back after all the formative years, I summarily accepted my mission. Finding Waldo is worth it, but getting paid in stock options to capture him by the bulk is better.</p>
<p>When introduced to the project, Waldo had already been found more than once and quite successfully by supercomputers. Well, billions of times to be exact, all in the same place: the Unix server back end. Given the entire data stream composed of endless sequenced Waldos, I was asked to create a program that could model that in real time and high-level 3D graphics in an interface admins could understand. I did not know how to, and no one else did, either. Whichever data unit Waldo was, thousands of him were being sorted by switches every second, and when the occasional Waldo slipped through the cracks it was difficult to notice they were all so alike.</p>
<p>Biking fifteen miles to work every day along the straight train tracks, the metal bars became a blur of rectangular ones and zeros. When one Waldo leaves the path, his twins are left scrambling and a virtual train wreck follows. If only keeping them in line was that easy. As I grappled with the problem I focused on a two-syllable word that I would chant thousands of times as I alternated pumping my legs up and down without end, searching for epiphany in ceaseless repetition. Looking back, it might as well have been Waldo.</p>
<p>This is the simple truth that all true hackers know: when writing great code, your mind is in a haphazard state of continual genius that for a brief moment understands how each operation links back to the method and how each method combines with the others to form a beautiful symphony of logic and efficiency. While the effects of this heightened state of awareness fade, it is a race against time to complete the system before it all stops making sense, to find the missing Waldo. If it was your best work, the program runs for a moment and in a fit of righteous vindication proclaims there he is! I had once come close to writing great code, and hoped to once again approach that glorious zenith. </p>
<p>The optimistic expectation of continual progress was in hindsight foolish. Days were spent without progress. Weeks were wasted when the project requirements changed. Basic feasibility was uncertain. Was the missing Waldo real or phantom? Given system compatibility issues, traffic overflow, and routing inconsistencies, there were just too many nooks and crannies. No, I needed to chase Waldo into the open.</p>
<p>Eventually, I discovered a browser-embedded graphics platform called WebGL; it could run on virtually any device Waldo had run out of places to hide. That I understood the documentation from reading about its 90s precursor OpenGL on software blogs in Russian was a coincidence I was at the time too sleep-deprived to appreciate. Finally capable of making sense of it all, I began to track the movements of one Waldo, then two, then three, until the intersecting paths of thousands took form in a geometric shape that, when hovered over, provided a brief snapshot of all of them in time. Having mapped successfully where the Waldos had been, I realized that it was not truly great code, and for that I was grateful; patching it at a later point I remember understanding it not as the fading veil of Charlie Gordons pined-for greatness but as a precursor for the possibilities that were to come. Gradually, the question became where is he going? Stretching my shoulders and fingers in anticipation, I looked forward to finding out and whispered oh yeah, this is gonna be fun.</p>
<p>I found a reference to MY application here (<a href=“'What are you looking at?' and other college application questions”>'What are you looking at?' and other college application questions). I was deferred, but that’s definitely my app (unless other people hid a Waldo in the library and wrote hints about it?)</p>
<p>Anyway, here’s the essay:</p>
<p>There’s a place you could go, if you’d like. It’s stacked with colors and shapes, the kind of place that looks studded with crystal when the afternoon sunlight hits the floating particles of dust and everything seems to… freeze. It’s this suspended animation, the moments catching on a divine hook and then stretching like taffy or else floating away like gossamer, that makes the place of hidden things well worth the wander. Reality shimmers in and out of existence; the contents of nooks and crannies are discovered and lost in the blink of an eye. </p>
<p>This is a vault of diaries, of love letters and honest prose. Every secret daydream, whispered fantasy, illuminating discovery is revealed here. The books mutter something about wanting to be found but they are ignored and ignored and—aha!— at last answered by pursed lips and a relaxed brow.</p>
<pre><code> The people who frequent this place all look like that, like they’re curious and curiously at ease. They seem awestruck, as if welcoming back the presence of an old and familiar friend. These are the people who understand the value of the lost, and the slow, steady pulse of the found. They peer inside every diary, pour over every love letter, brushing off every cover and admiring it the way it should be admired.
And here’s the curious part: they become lost themselves. That’s the true power of this place of hidden things; it pulls in the daring, the hopeful, the tired and forlorn. It tugs at the heartstrings of the cynics and pushes reality on the romantics until each and every wandering soul has been blended with an eternity worth of ideas. The entranced nomads stumble to a corner, a lost thing in their hands, and bury themselves. They dig a bunker where they relax, hidden from the world. They are not crouching, not waiting, not reaching towards the light with the desperate claws of those pushed behind barricades. Dust collects in their collarbones and they grow into the building, shrugging off pretenses and finding a way to fit, slouched against a wall until ivy grows up and around them and their breath merges with the heartbeat of the space. Halos of holly crown these wanderers, making angels of the lost and the found, balancing, as holly always does, until the two are one.
Most people think the place of hidden things is called such because of each tucked-away diary, each kernel of meaning that’s embedded in what some might call fantasy and some might call reality but is actually neither, just the truth and nothing more. And that could be true, but maybe also the place of hidden things serves to hide the people who go there to search. Maybe it swallows them whole and spits out their bones by each large window so that the sun glints and glimmers off the clean white and the people sparkle like the air.
</code></pre>
<p>The place of hidden things whispers, creaking and moaning and offering up the simple suggestion that all is real. The pages the sojourners turn are real, physically present in their hands to cause shallow cuts and rustling noises. The words are real. The truth each diary, each novel, each and every yellowed letter crammed into a wrinkled envelope with a peeling stamp, screams is as real as any truth could be. Maybe more real- what would be the point of writing if not to find the truth?</p>
<pre><code> The place of hidden things erases the line, that fragile and quivering line, between the real and the unreal because those stories, those posed impossibilities, are just as real as the metaphorical diamonds that sparkle on the ring fingers of those married to the love of learning.
</code></pre>
<p>This essay is a love letter. It is an expression of adoration for quiet moments in beautiful buildings and the notion of traveling without a map or compass. It’s words written in cursive on a milky white page to tell you how knowledge kisses the foreheads of the forlorn and wisdom would take you out to dinner if only you could find it. I’m trying so hard to find it.</p>
<pre><code>Love letters require a subject, a willing sitter to stay still and beautiful while prosy nothings are written by romantics dressed like Parisians. Love letters can’t be about a school and a city and a library and the idea of learning— but this one is. Maybe it’s not a love letter, then, though love letters are idealized texts written by silly youth in love with possibility and I am nothing if not that.
This essay is an expression of the hopes and dreams of the author, one of which is to visit the place of hidden things. If I could, I’d go to Illinois and walk through the very real doors to the place of hidden things. I’d read every novel there, slowly and steadily breathing as the building breathes and wandering the halls between each word, exploring the doors between each chapter and how they open so easily if you have a careful enough touch. I’d not be a lost soul because I would’ve found a home.
There’s a place you could go, if you’d like, where what is real and what isn’t melt together. You could take this fictional essay, this story about a paradoxical building filled to the brim with diaries that don’t often sound like diaries and love letters without romance and walk into the this library and look at the shelves, studying the rainbow of covers. And you could find something. It’s a trinket, maybe, but it will dare you to call this essay fiction, dare you to say that it wasn’t hidden within the very place described. And it will beg you to recognize that I present reality as I see it and as it is for the two are inseparably intertwined.
If you are willing to face the truth of this love letter, diary, essay, go to the Regenstein Library and shuffle through the books. A man by the name of Ralph Emerson wrote a good one, I am told, a diary to span a lifetime. Should your feet feel like wandering and you begin wondering what I mean, do not hesitate to follow your curiosity for behind those stories lies a treasure that’ll create a tale of your own.
This essay is a love letter, is a hidden thing, is a map. I’ve revealed one secret, and if you believe me, if you can’t separate the real and the fictional, or else understand that this essay all is the former and none of the latter, go and find Waldo behind Emerson’s books and then send me a picture. Waldo is accustomed to hiding in pictures, it’s only fair that he should be found in one.
</code></pre>
<p>so this was my common app (ugg now that I look back on it I realized I messed up the ending and it was sorta boring)
I peeked at the problem in front of me and quickly cowered back in fear. The numbers seemed to be swirling around and around in an undecipherable mess. On my left, my parents shrieked in disbelief at my inability to comprehend the system of equations. On my right, my sister furiously scribbled numbers on her sheet of paper. Tears fell down my face uncontrollably, staining my cheeks and chin. I gripped the sides of my pencil tighter, wishing with every ounce of my being that a clear solution would appear—but the desire would not transfer. I had absolutely no idea how to even begin the problem.
I glanced up and caught a glimpse of my parents’ expressions. Their stern eyes and pursed lips burned a hole through my heart; I felt myself sinking into my chair. Flustered, I grabbed my set of notes from math class and rummaged through the pages. My heart skipped a beat as I saw rows and rows of formulas and equations. There was no way I could find the right one! All the while, an aching pain smothered my thoughts, forcing me to gasp desperately for air.
My twin sister, casually sitting next to me, zipped through the problems with ease.
I watched enviously as my parents smiled and nodded in her direction. Why couldn’t my parents be satisfied with me? Fervently, an irresistible rush of desire to solve that problem surged through me. I clenched my notes, harder, flipping the pages over and over till I found a similar example problem. I meticulously followed every step the teacher had written out in his notes. Something finally clicked and an overwhelming thirst to conquer this challenge rushed into me. I swatted out numbers, I aligned matching letters, I generated new equations— Gasp! In front of me were the answers; I had solved the problem!
Looking back on this moment, I realize this is where my bizarre and infatuated fascination with math began. While superficial reasons initially compelled me to unravel the problem, I found myself truly wanting to continue to solve the problem; it was like wine had intoxicated me with frenzy. It also pushed me to challenge myself to further my understanding of that specific math concept. I realized I need this competitive air to flourish and become the person that I want to be: one who journeys to the depths of the universe to understand situations and questions that would provoke the minds of many. One who challenges herself to prove to herself that she has done all she could to thrive. And finally one who does not allow for her destiny to be determined by what she has done but will do in the future.</p>
<p>Don’t know if anyone is still reading these, but here’s my WALDO about the American Dream:
“Modern society, be it in capitalist America or communist Vietnam, encourages its citizens to determine the purpose of life from a young age. What do you want to be when you grow up? In shaky, waxy crayon, we were trained to cognitively list our favorite color, food, and how we wanted to spend the rest of our lives. But over time, this fantasy we had familiarized ourselves with as children can become blurred, obscured, or endangered altogether.
Appropriately decked out in red, white, and blue, Waldo is an allegorical projection of the American dream. Every child idolizes their own version of Waldo, and likewise every child has created a special shrine for him; in America, success is a religion. Waldo is meant to be kept in focus, and his characteristics memorized by heart. However, life is not static. With each turn of the puzzle book page, Waldo is less discernible from the chaos. Tantalizing “red herrings” distract from the answer; accessories like time, money, and space drown us in confusion and self-doubt, thus making the search for Waldo among beach bums and clowns the plight of the common man.
Waldo and his game are a metaphor for childhood perspective in an adult world, the career we dreamed of achieving, the life we thought we would make for ourselves. For the fragile realists, the broken-hearted, and the grown-ups, Waldo is dead, sepulchered in his tomb of a tome, gathering dust. Fortunately, I have always been idealistic enough to sustain contact with him. Waldo maintains his original form, but has been altered subtly. Perhaps in my puzzle he is turned around, throwing darts at balloons or buying cotton candy, but my hope of Waldo is as I remember it. If I had lost touch with Waldo, I would not be writing this absurdly melodramatic extended metaphor to my dream school.
In our fast-paced, white-or-blue collared world, reinforcement of self-determination is essential for the preservation of childhood innocence. When I am discouraged, I embrace the overtly simplistic axiom, the only way you won’t get something is if you give up. There are always going to be androgynous candy-stripe-wearing fiends confounding your goals, but when your eyes finally meet with Waldo’s sweet mug, the redemptive sense of accomplishment is truly euphoric.”</p>
<p>I feel like I’m the only person who wrote about my arch nemesis. Once decisions come out I’ll post mine. I wrote about my arch nemesis being a pencil. LOL. I feel like that’s unique enough.</p>
<p>i re-used an essay for “pose a question on your own” hahaha</p>
<p>Mine was topic 5 ;)</p>
<p>In the past couple of years, I have been getting a feeling that I am getting dumber then before. No, it wasn’t because, I was unable to carry on my everyday activities at school or elsewhere. You see, in my early teenage years, I thought I knew pretty much everything I need to know and felt pretty comfortable in my own universe. Now, as the world around me expands faster and faster, I find myself just barely able to scratch the essence of the core events. Accepting the idea of one’s own limitations is painful but necessary for one’s personal growth.
For me, this process began with trying to absorb a continuous barrage of current events coming at me from every corner of the world. The amount of information that I was able to retain in a relatively short period of time was astounding. However as time has passed by, the feeling of fulfillment started to dissipate. I began to wonder, does being well informed about current events amount to any real knowledge and understanding of the world around me?
This thought stunned me. The feeling of simplicity embraced me once again, but this time, the bombardment by the today’s news wasn’t enough to force it to let go.
Next day during lunch, as I was thinking of new ways of learning, I noticed that there was a note sitting next to me. It didn’t have a name, but only a verse, which I later learned was written by Socrates: “True wisdom comes to each of us when we realize how little we understand about life, ourselves, and the world around.”
That note opened my eyes to the simple truth that I know almost nothing. As time passed and I returned to my normal self, this idea made me strive for continuous step-by-step growth within the vast and never ending universe of knowledge, and I hope to be given a chance use the recourses at University of Chicago to bring me a few steps ahead in this journey.</p>
<p>I did Where’s Waldo, hopefully you as well as UChicago enjoy it.</p>
<p>The obvious answer to this question would be hes behind the car on page 8, or something of that nature. Unfortunately, the obvious isnt as fun as the ideas that are out of left field. By using my professional opinion, and by professional I mean what Ive learned in my AP Psychology class, I have deduced that Waldo is really a character in the deluded mind of a travel agent named Walter. Walter has been diagnosed as a schizophrenic and the person we know as Waldo doesnt really exist, Walter embodies Waldo. The DSM-IV, the foremost psychological text for diagnosis, requires 3 diagnostic criteria to be met to be diagnosed as a schizophrenic. You need to have two or more of the characteristic symptoms listed and a social or occupational dysfunction for at least 6 months. This 6 month period must include at least 1 month of the characteristic symptoms unless the patient was treated.</p>
<p>Walter has an altered sense of reality and he experiences constant delusions to the point where he truly thinks that hes a lost character named Waldo. Every day he dresses up as Waldo from the bob on his red and white striped hat to the brown of his shoes. He believes that his cane is the magical secret behind his many travels through time and space. Each page of a Waldo book is a separate delusion; each setting is an episode in his troubled mind. This delusion is bizarre enough to not warrant another symptom, but there are more that support the diagnosis of schizophrenia.</p>
<p>Walterss catatonic behavior is classified as another characteristic symptom; its just not a severe as his delusions. To an extent, Walter mimics the events in his delusions. Every time we see Waldo, its like hes frozen in time in an unmoving position. Skeptics may argue that hes frozen because its a picture and to that I say: theyre probably right. But what are skeptics doing critiquing the logic of a paper on Waldo? Since Waldo is in that position, Walter is too, but its not Waldo whos responsible, its the catatonia. </p>
<p>Walterss grossly disorganized behavior, which consists mostly of him dressing inappropriately, is his third characteristic symptom. What in Martin Handfords name is Walter wearing? He is clearly violating the established law in society that youre not allowed to wear white after Labor Day. These symptoms show that there is truly something wrong with Waldo; people shouldnt just stop moving and stay in the same position and people shouldnt be imagining that theyre traveling through time and space to hide so other people could find them. The delusions and catatonic behavior have made it hard for people in Walterss life.</p>
<p>When schizophrenia struck Walter, his job was an unfortunate causality. He was constantly late for work and when he was at work he could never make a sale. This was a drastic change because before the disease Walter was the best travel agent at the Handford Travel Agency. Now Walter just sits at his desk and looks into the distance. His coworkers thought he was in another world sometimes; it didnt help that Walter started dressing up like Waldo. Walter wouldnt even respond to his name or talk to anyone. There were also some instances where he was found standing in an awkward position a couple feet away from the travel agency. Nobody realized that Walter was suffering from schizophrenia. Back in the day, Walter was engaged to a girl that he loved, but the schizophrenia consumed his mind so much, that he couldnt even hold a relationship. One day he woke up from his delusion, and found that his fiancé had left him. That may be why Waldo’s first girlfriend, Wilma, disappeared. Walterss catatonia was a problem, but his delusions where the real cause of his social and occupational dysfunctions. </p>
<p>Walter has been experiencing the symptoms and dysfunctions for over 30 years, which is far longer than the 1 and 6 month required periods. This delusion of being Waldo wasnt a momentary thing because Walter never got treated. </p>
<p>Waldo stayed inside Walters mind. Waldo isnt behind the car on page 8; hes consuming the mind of Walter. He is the cause behind all of Walterss problems and dysfunctions. Unfortunately, Waldo gave Walter one final release from all of those problems. Walter was so entrenched into Waldos world that when Waldo died Walter had to as well. Waldo wasnt a fun little guy who can be found in a childrens book, Waldo was a sickness and a curse that ended Walterss life.</p>
<p>FYI, I search and replaced my name with “John,” my location with “Miami,” and my high schools name with “Learning.” But, here’s my essay -</p>
<p>To the good Chief:</p>
<p>Sir, I write to you from the fifteenth floor of the Peninsula Chicago Hotel. It seems that the elusive Waldo has escaped justice once again. We had him detained in a University of Chicago Admissions Office holding cell. However, he has escaped in the form of an essay question, Wheres Waldo, really? Indeed, he also now has in his possession the decision letter of our comrade, John. It is my duty to retrieve the letter for in it lies the future of a young man.</p>
<p>Waldo is certainly an enigma to me. Why the hubbub over this buffoonish villain? He dons a sweater of the most ugly hue of red. His glasses are something from the 70s and dont get me started on that ludicrous hat. However, John enlightens me that we must never let looks deceive us. For behind those nerdish pair of glasses lays the conniving and crafty mind of a seasoned felon. He has swindled us too many times. It is time I gave you a full account of the tale that is Waldo.</p>
<p>The man has several alias ranging from Wally, Weili, and Volli. With each name he adopts a different persona. A true master of trickery. Our chase began in the metropolitan alleys of London. I laid waste to the entire town in my pursuit for the criminal. And just as I was about to apprehend him, he escaped my clutches. We then rendezvoused deep in the jungles of the Pantanal forests of Western Brazil. We clashed and he proved to be a worthy opponent. It was there that I learned how truly deadly he was. I have searched for him amongst the stars in outer space, the busy streets of Florence, in the depths of the sea, in an African Sahara, and even the snowy Himalayas. Our most prolific encounter, however, was upon September of this past year at the ACT testing room in Miami, FL. I was lucky for my friend John came to my rescue after finishing the mathematics section. Waldo truly proved to be ruthless. He attempted to foil any chance of doing well upon the Reading section. But, no matter I took Waldo down and had him in the back of my car. Yet, like a wisp of smoke, Waldo disappeared into thin air. John and I have been partners ever since. It seems as though Waldo seeks something my new friend has. For we both collided with Waldo just the other day while John worked on his University of Chicago supplement. We brawled and boxed. Our battle was beautiful. And yet, for some reason, as soon as John hit Submit, Waldo became nothing more than ethereal.</p>
<p>We have received intelligence that Waldo shall strike once again at the Learning High School graduation in June of 2013. While the graduation shall be held upon the football field in the foreground of the campus, we believe Waldo will be lurking closely in the shadows. Upon an anonymous tip, I believe Waldo shall be hiding by the </p>
<p>[The latter was the remnant of a letter discovered upon the desk of Agent 99 in room 1567 of the Peninsula hotel along with a bloody red-and-white wool cap and a very tattered ACT score report. We regrettably cannot decide which was in poorer taste, the act of murder or the atrocious sense of fashion. Nevertheless, Waldo remains at large.]</p>
<p>Here’s my Waldo essay! It’s a little risky I think, but I hope UChicago appreciates my creativity 
btw, I changed the name (the so-called Jane is my name in the real essay) It’s also super long, but hopefully a good story and entertaining to read!</p>
<p>Long, long ago, in a land far, far away, there lived a little girl named…just kidding. What kind of interesting story starts like that anyway? This is the real deal, folks: a completely accurate tale of a modern-day girl. Let’s call her Jane. Though to be honest, the story only starts with Jane. This is my story. I’m Sock, by the way. My story starts in Jane’s dresser drawer, also known as Sockland. I was just minding my own business. I’m an average sock, you know. White ankle sock with little purple parts at the toe and heel. Like all true socks, I have an identical twin, but we had been avoiding each other since…well, that dryer incident. Not too pretty—never get on Static Electricity’s bad side.</p>
<p>Anyway, I was hanging out with the Fuzzy family (Jane loves fuzzy socks) and we were chatting, having a good time, when I heard the familiar sounds of Jane rummaging around in Sockland, looking for a pair. She found my twin sock, I know, because socks feel this peculiar little twinge when their twin is picked up without them. And next thing I knew, Jane had closed the door to Sockland after a few fruitless seconds of searching for me. That was when I knew. As all the Fuzzies watched me worriedly, my world began to spin and darken. I could barely form a single coherent thought, but I knew in every thread of my sorry little existence that I…was… </p>
<p>“Lost. He’s lost,” announced a grim, official voice somewhere above me. I regained consciousness gradually and found myself lying in the dirt. Unfamiliar sights surrounded me. I knew I was in that strange world known as Outside, so foreign since I was usually protected by my older sibling Shoe on such ventures. But where was I? This looked nothing like the brief glimpses of Outside I would sometimes catch, peeking out from Shoe. Noticing all the things around me, I got up slowly and glanced around warily. One guy stepped forward and introduced himself in the same gruff voice I had heard before. “I’m Ruler,” he said. “Welcome to the Land of the Lost Things.” I must have let out a squeak of surprise, because Ruler folded his arms and glared at me. “Guys can be purple,” he said. “Not my fault Jane loves purple.” </p>
<p>I hurriedly assured him that his purple skin wasn’t the cause of my confusion. “I’ve just never been here,” I explained. “It’s so…desolate.” And it certainly was. Just behind our little group was an imposing fa</p>
<p>I chose the essay about the gift:
Essay Option 4: “…I [was] eager to escape backward again, to be off to invent a past for the present.” -The Rose Rabbi by
Daniel Stern
Present: pres-ent
- Something that is offered, presented, or given as a gift
Let’s stick with this definition. Unusual presents, accidental presents, metaphorical presents, re-gifted presents, etc. - pick any present you have ever received and invent a past for it.
It was 1983 and M</p>
<p>Accepted
Essay Option 5</p>
<p>How Are Humans Complex?</p>
<p>The question seems simple enough, but I feel its far more complicated than even we as humans can explain. Humans are complex for many reasons. For one, the joining of two cells together to form such a magnificent creature, as is a human, is fascinating. The millions of clocks and functions that need to work together in harmony in order for any human to exist at any given moment are enough to stymie the minds of even the deepest intellectuals in our planet. We, however, manage to exist not in small numbers but in large ones, each time defying the idea that so many things cannot all go right simultaneously. On the highest part of our body, we have the control center, better known as the brain, which single-handedly orchestrates the music that our body performs continuously. Within our brain lie the secrets to our inherent complexity and the explanations to many of lifes biggest questions.</p>
<p>Our bodies are filled with more cells than can be counted, each being too small for the human eye to see. These cells work like an army making sure that the entire body stays strong by protecting themselves and the cells around them. Although small, each type of cell has a different and very important job. Cardiac muscle cells, which are what your heart is made of, for example, enable the heart to pump nearly 2,000 gallons of blood daily. The heart is clearly impressive in its ability to keep blood circulating throughout your body constantly, but perhaps what is more amazing is that it can be transplanted into a completely different human body and continue to do the same. Our hearts pump at different rates depending on how much oxygen our cells need, a process which is controlled by our brain and essential for optimal body performance. Since our brains control our heart rates, a person has the power to change the speed of their heart using their brain if they wish to do so. The brain, it seems, has endless possibilities.</p>
<p>We humans, like many other species, have brains. Yet, we differ in that, unlike other species, we can use our brains to think and rationalize. Although having these abilities is, for the most part, a reason for our superiority, it is often the cause of our demise. While most species tend to work together within their group, humans often look after their own interests as opposed to those of the entire population. In this way, our brains, which are supposed to help us achieve greatness, instead give us too much freedom and let us think our selfish interest more important than the greater good. There are other times, however, when being able to think does indeed become a perk of being human. For one, the fact that we can think about anything gives us a sort of power that other species are unable to benefit from. Whats even more interesting is the fact that people can think of anything and not worry about their thoughts being exposed since no one, but the person having them, knows what they are.</p>
<p>The human ability to live in so many different climates, environments, and still be able to thrive in each and every one of them explains why, as a species, we have survived for so long on this planet. Our evolutionary process has been complicated yet uplifting throughout, giving our species an advantage over others time after time. Our race, cultures, customs, looks and even our behavior are all products of the evolutionary process our species has undergone. Melanin within our skin, for example, protected our ancestors from the harmful rays of the sun, yet through evolution, groups of people who lived in areas where the suns rays didnt affect them as much began losing the melanins dark complexion until what is now known as white was developed. These fair-skinned people lived in places like Europe where the climate was cold, and they had little need for the protection of melanin. Similarly, Asians developed relatively small eyes because their ancestors, the Mongolians, had to survive in very harsh weather, and their eyes evolved smaller, thus minimizing the damage done. Humans in various groups have evolved in ways that are beneficial for that particular group; yet, each human, regardless of how their ancestors evolved, is still 99.9% identical to everyone else, showing that we are vastly more alike than we are different.</p>
<p>There are a million differences that exist from one species to another, but the most crucial difference between humans and all other species is that we humans have a conscience. It is shocking to think that we are the only species that can learn from its ancestors and avoid making the same mistakes again; yet, our history repeats itself the most. Our ability to know right from wrong has also proven to not be very helpful, since we have, in fact, caused the most damage to this planet in the time we have been here. Scientists have been unable to explain why it is that we have a conscience and feel things like remorse and guilt. These things make us unique and show how very little is known about the power of our minds.</p>
<p>Human beings are incredibly complex creatures. We have the ability to accomplish many things and have yet to discover everything we are capable of. We defy great odds by simply existing and seem to continue on regardless of the difficulties we encounter. Our bodies are intricate systems that work continuously to keep us functioning, all being controlled by the brain. Difficult to understand, selfish at times, convoluted in our thoughts, and capable of greatness, we are human. Changing the world, changing ourselves, changing the future and learning in the process, we are human. Different in many ways, similar in many more, learning every day and breaking ground in the process, we are human.</p>
<p>a true story of my really bad day</p>
<p>one day when i was at home, i got up from bed and went downstairs. some really bad stuff happened as soon as i went down there. as soon as i went into the fridge to eat breakfast, the stuff in the fridge collapsed on me and fell on the floor. it took someone about 2.5 hours to come and find me and get the stuff off from on top of me. it hurt pretty good but i ended up being ok. after i got up from the floor, i jumped up and down for 10 minutes because i was sincerely happy and then i went to eat. the food wasnt that good because it was on the floor for over 2 hours. after i ate breakfast i went up stairs and i walked in a wall and got a concussion. that hurt really well. my sister then had to take me to the hospital and then i got out an hour later. i had a huge welt on my head but it was really hilarious to look at. when i got back i went to make myself some lunch but the knife that i was using cut me pretty badly so i had to go back to the hospital just after i got back. i got some stitches but i was ok after that. i went back home and finished making the lunch i was working on before i went to the hospital. I still used the same knife even though it was bloody after stabbing myself with it. I thought to myself that I should stab myself anymore because it could hurt and I could go back to the hospital. that lunch tasted really good. i was so happy that everything was ok after those bad things that i went back into my room and jumped up and down for another 15 minutes with excitement. my excitement turned out to be not exciting. i ended up hurting myself and my sister had to take me back to the hospital. i ended up spraining my ankle. on our way back home she was not happy and was yelling at me and we got into an accident. the car was totaled and so was she but everyone ended up being good. the ambulance came and got us and we went back to the hospital to get checked. after that her mom came and got us and we went back home to eat dinner. the dinner was tasted well. we had pizza from a pizza place. my mom was surprised to hear what kind of day we were having. all she said is that she hopes it never happens again and that i should stop being so happy. she said that my happiness is making me stupid and that i should smarten up and stop being happy. it took a while for me to figure out what she meant but as soon as i did i listened to her advice. it was the best advice i have ever gotten. when my dad got home he was interested in hearing what happened today. when we told him he laughed hard and couldnt contain himself. he laughed so hard that he was having chest pains. we then had to take him to the hospital and then he had to have heart surgery. he was ok though. he went home 2 days later. from that time i only went back to the hospital 6 times but for only little things such as a bug bite and an itch. nobody else in the house has had to go back though. the day got better when i went to bed but i had dream where i relived the entire day again. it was funny to see what i went through and i was curious to see if it will ever happen again. having days like these can be fun and funny as well as interesting but everyone experiences a day like this. this wasnt a life changing experience because it was meant to be. it was interesting to deal with it but it changed the way i was. im not as happy as i used to be because my mom said i should smarten up and stop being happy that becoming stupid would be ok. since i am stupid now i dont jump up and down like i used to and i try not to go back to the hospital for things like that anymore.
11 months ago
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<p>this is a true story. my teacher wanted us to write about a crazy day we have had. there are a few typos that i found but i think it is easy to follow.</p>
<p>Doubt the ‘bad day’ is gonna get you in; poor writing and does not tell me much about you.</p>
<p>Jesus, some of these are HUGE.</p>