Read my essay? It would be much appreciated

<p>This is the choose your own topic for the common app essay. I tried to put a little twist on a few personal experiences, hoping the symbolism shines through</p>

<p>What do you guys think about it - I can't express how much I would appreciate a quick read and comment</p>

<p>I chose the topic of your choice (250 - 500 words)</p>

<p>As you listen to the upbeat chorus, repeatedly singing the same line over – “all the other kids with the pumped up kicks” – you can’t help but to sing along. Then the whistling kicks in, so whimsical, so lighthearted, and you begin to tap your feet along with the beat of the song. It’s as if Mark Foster deliberately used this sense of playfulness to overshadow his more twisted thoughts, implying that maybe, just maybe, even our darkest hour can be somewhat sprightly. That is, until you realize the rest of the chorus is, “All the other kids with the pumped up kicks, you better run, better run, faster than my bullet.”
Hospital food, at least in my opinion, is severely underrated. People just fail to see the quality of macaroni and cheese most hospital cafeterias serve. Whether it’s because most people’s main concern when they go visit someone involves enjoying a good meal or not, I always felt that if I’m going to be sad, I mind as well be sad on a satisfied stomach. So I’d take the elevator down to the first floor cafeteria with a ten-dollar bill in hand. Mac and cheese for me, and a pack of DIBS ice cream for my dad. After his first brain surgery, he obtained a strong but weird liking for DIBS. After returning to his room, we’d sit and eat together on his bed, discussing the Flyers, acting as if he didn’t have terminal cancer in his brain.
Fortunately, there were many other fun things other than eating at the hospital. Being there almost every day for two years, I was able to find distractions from all the disease. My mom’s hospital offered free Internet and television service, which often included some of the best channels. Since this was about six months before my dad got sick, he would take me there right after school. Upon entering the room, my mom would always ask if I finished my homework before we came, which I didn’t. But since she was recovering from a heart attack, my dad just told me to say yes to avoid the argument. After watching the three o’ clock showing of Ellen, I’d explore Virtua Memorial’s maze-like hospital by myself, often looking at the outrageous prices of what I found to be mediocre paintings. This was also the time when I’d invent my own games. My favorite involving the simple concept of jumping as high as I could, trying to touch every “EXIT” sign in the building. Sometimes I believed that if I jumped high enough, I’d jump right out of the building, right out of this world.
Eventually there were no more hospital visits. No more macaroni and cheese, no more hospital Internet service, no more exit signs; just a scarred form of myself, my mom, and an empty spot at the dinner table. An empty spot that would soon be occupied by a new found appreciation for the little things; the little things that help you get through life, like macaroni and cheese. Maybe Mark Foster wasn’t trying to hide his dark message under that playful tune, just as I don’t try to hide my darkest hours under children’s play. It’s all there, for everyone to see, in black and white; but so are the exit signs, the free Internet service, and all that delicious macaroni and cheese.</p>