College Application Essay.
Phew. It's done.
It seems that every self-respecting, red-blooded man loves to recount bizarre injuries suffered in his care-free youth. In fact, to some it might seem to be an unofficial American pastime - men regale one another with memories of bright, young, bold summers spent playing football in busy city streets, dashing through dangerous woods, climbing mile-high oaks, and spraying themselves in the face with pepper spray. Since one probably wonders how the unlikely latter scenario might occur, yours truly will recollect his unforgettable “Great Accident,” and the significant effect it had in unflinching detail.
As I sat on the floor in my older sister’s room watching a familiar episode of my favorite show “Doug” on a September evening, my gaze wandered to her dresser. On it sat a shiny cylindrical object that caught my eye because, well, I was six and it was shiny. As inquisitive children are known to do, I impulsively grabbed what I thought to be the world’s biggest Energizer battery and started playing with it. Had my reading skills been more developed - or if I’d had a stronger acquaintance with hazardous lachrymatory agents - I might’ve heeded the warning of the huge red “KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN” sticker. But I played with it while laughing at Doug deal with his crazy biker-grandma, oblivious to the world of pepper-pain that awaited me.
Meanwhile, my exhausted father was slumped on the couch in the den, just on the brink of sleep. He’d spent what seemed like eons in Houston’s rush hour traffic that day, which ironically drove him to his wit’s end. Relaxing with the six o’clock news and a Diet Coke, he’d found refuge from a mind-numbingly tiring day, and he reveled in it. With his eyelids drooping, it was as if he was riding the D Train to the Land of Nod when suddenly my sudden earsplitting shriek woke him, like emergency brakes. His brain snapped to attention and synapses fired like pistons, but his body was still clumsy from his pseudo-nap and with a sudden and awkward jerk of his arm, Diet Coke flew. There was no time to worry about the mess though; my screech served as a deafening and horrifying alarm of the calamity I had just visited upon myself. He burst into the room to find me red-faced, rolled up on the floor, bawling and screaming for help. It took him a split second to relate my anguished screams to my sister’s can of protective pepper spray lying on the floor next to me, and he sprang into action.
The two of us barreled our way through the house as he sought to find something that would ease my pain. I threw my face under the running faucet and felt the healing water rinse my stinging eyes. Shot through with adrenaline and too overwhelmed to deal with a sluggish 911 operator - Dad realized that he couldn’t treat my injury on his own. Without so much as turning off the running water faucet, he seized my thrashing body and rushed me out to the car. The wind offered what precious little relief was to be had from my burning face, so I kept my head out the window for the entire trip. Of course, traffic was still awful and now Dad had a crying, screaming child hanging out his front window - a scene that I’m sure looked like a kidnapping in progress. Honking his horn and flashing his headlamps, the volume and ferocity his shouts at the gridlock almost rivaled my own tortured cries.
When we finally arrived, I bolted for the hospital door with Dad following shortly behind, trailing me like an anxious suburbanite chasing his terrier off its leash. With unadulterated adrenaline fueling my manic frenzy, the nurses struggled to rush me into a private room where I was injected with what had to have been a barrel of elephant tranquilizer. Like something out of “A Clockwork Orange,” the women in white pulled back my eyelids and affixed suction cups directly to the surface of my eyes. Though the device was inhibitive, the water offered them the first genuine relief from the pain, but the rest of my face still felt as though I used an ant pile for a pillow, so the nurses slathered it in a white cream. The cooling ointment almost immediately soothed my raw skin, and for the first time since I picked the demon-can up, my active imagination wasn’t telling me I was going to die. But this encouraging realization was short-lived because only two minutes later my mother burst into the room in total hysterics. Looking more like Frankenstein’s monster than her precious son, I had swollen cheeks, beet-red skin, and tubes stuck in my eyes. She had rushed to the hospital, leaving a classroom of students stranded in the middle of a lecture, and as all mothers do - she feared the worst. Soon after her dramatic entrance, my calming nurse reassured her that I was going to be fine. She told us the spray would leave scabs on the heavily affected areas, but there wouldn’t be any permanent damage to my skin. The tubes were removed, the nurse encouraged me to rest, and with only a fraction of my initial pain, I slept.
The “Great Accident” is possibly one of the strangest things for which I’m thankful. I learned that thinking before you act on impulse can save one from a world of trouble, a lesson which has served me very well - I’ve not broken a bone or been admitted to the hospital since. Growing up, I would always find myself signing my classmates’ casts, but nobody ever needed to do likewise for me, and the Accident also played a significant role in my driving record as I’ve never been in as much as a fender-bender. But don’t take me for an overly-cautious goody-goody; I recognize that risk-taking is a crucial part of living life - just as pepper spray can be a tool for protecting it (though not in this instance). My reflections on the Accident allowed me to see where my personal balance of risk and caution is, and that’s played a hugely significant part in my outlook on living life, something for which I am very thankful. Plus, when playing in everyone's favorite unofficial pastime, I never lose.
-THE END-
-Billy
It seems that every self-respecting, red-blooded man loves to recount bizarre injuries suffered in his care-free youth. In fact, to some it might seem to be an unofficial American pastime - men regale one another with memories of bright, young, bold summers spent playing football in busy city streets, dashing through dangerous woods, climbing mile-high oaks, and spraying themselves in the face with pepper spray. Since one probably wonders how the unlikely latter scenario might occur, yours truly will recollect his unforgettable “Great Accident,” and the significant effect it had in unflinching detail.
As I sat on the floor in my older sister’s room watching a familiar episode of my favorite show “Doug” on a September evening, my gaze wandered to her dresser. On it sat a shiny cylindrical object that caught my eye because, well, I was six and it was shiny. As inquisitive children are known to do, I impulsively grabbed what I thought to be the world’s biggest Energizer battery and started playing with it. Had my reading skills been more developed - or if I’d had a stronger acquaintance with hazardous lachrymatory agents - I might’ve heeded the warning of the huge red “KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN” sticker. But I played with it while laughing at Doug deal with his crazy biker-grandma, oblivious to the world of pepper-pain that awaited me.
Meanwhile, my exhausted father was slumped on the couch in the den, just on the brink of sleep. He’d spent what seemed like eons in Houston’s rush hour traffic that day, which ironically drove him to his wit’s end. Relaxing with the six o’clock news and a Diet Coke, he’d found refuge from a mind-numbingly tiring day, and he reveled in it. With his eyelids drooping, it was as if he was riding the D Train to the Land of Nod when suddenly my sudden earsplitting shriek woke him, like emergency brakes. His brain snapped to attention and synapses fired like pistons, but his body was still clumsy from his pseudo-nap and with a sudden and awkward jerk of his arm, Diet Coke flew. There was no time to worry about the mess though; my screech served as a deafening and horrifying alarm of the calamity I had just visited upon myself. He burst into the room to find me red-faced, rolled up on the floor, bawling and screaming for help. It took him a split second to relate my anguished screams to my sister’s can of protective pepper spray lying on the floor next to me, and he sprang into action.
The two of us barreled our way through the house as he sought to find something that would ease my pain. I threw my face under the running faucet and felt the healing water rinse my stinging eyes. Shot through with adrenaline and too overwhelmed to deal with a sluggish 911 operator - Dad realized that he couldn’t treat my injury on his own. Without so much as turning off the running water faucet, he seized my thrashing body and rushed me out to the car. The wind offered what precious little relief was to be had from my burning face, so I kept my head out the window for the entire trip. Of course, traffic was still awful and now Dad had a crying, screaming child hanging out his front window - a scene that I’m sure looked like a kidnapping in progress. Honking his horn and flashing his headlamps, the volume and ferocity his shouts at the gridlock almost rivaled my own tortured cries.
When we finally arrived, I bolted for the hospital door with Dad following shortly behind, trailing me like an anxious suburbanite chasing his terrier off its leash. With unadulterated adrenaline fueling my manic frenzy, the nurses struggled to rush me into a private room where I was injected with what had to have been a barrel of elephant tranquilizer. Like something out of “A Clockwork Orange,” the women in white pulled back my eyelids and affixed suction cups directly to the surface of my eyes. Though the device was inhibitive, the water offered them the first genuine relief from the pain, but the rest of my face still felt as though I used an ant pile for a pillow, so the nurses slathered it in a white cream. The cooling ointment almost immediately soothed my raw skin, and for the first time since I picked the demon-can up, my active imagination wasn’t telling me I was going to die. But this encouraging realization was short-lived because only two minutes later my mother burst into the room in total hysterics. Looking more like Frankenstein’s monster than her precious son, I had swollen cheeks, beet-red skin, and tubes stuck in my eyes. She had rushed to the hospital, leaving a classroom of students stranded in the middle of a lecture, and as all mothers do - she feared the worst. Soon after her dramatic entrance, my calming nurse reassured her that I was going to be fine. She told us the spray would leave scabs on the heavily affected areas, but there wouldn’t be any permanent damage to my skin. The tubes were removed, the nurse encouraged me to rest, and with only a fraction of my initial pain, I slept.
The “Great Accident” is possibly one of the strangest things for which I’m thankful. I learned that thinking before you act on impulse can save one from a world of trouble, a lesson which has served me very well - I’ve not broken a bone or been admitted to the hospital since. Growing up, I would always find myself signing my classmates’ casts, but nobody ever needed to do likewise for me, and the Accident also played a significant role in my driving record as I’ve never been in as much as a fender-bender. But don’t take me for an overly-cautious goody-goody; I recognize that risk-taking is a crucial part of living life - just as pepper spray can be a tool for protecting it (though not in this instance). My reflections on the Accident allowed me to see where my personal balance of risk and caution is, and that’s played a hugely significant part in my outlook on living life, something for which I am very thankful. Plus, when playing in everyone's favorite unofficial pastime, I never lose.
-THE END-
-Billy