if you were college, would you accept me or just turn into grand valley?
Since some pre-kindergarten time that I cannot remember, I have been infatuated with reading. My mother applied the correct methodology for the development of children. It didn’t take long for me to become literate. Without the cheap novels I consumed in middle school and Nobel prizewinners I read later, I would not be the terrific, dizzying individual that I am today. Instead, I would watch sitcoms.
At some point my explosive little imagination decided that the only legitimate career for me to have would be that of a writer. After all, I did win the school spelling bee in eighth grade. In order for me to achieve in this field, I knew that it would be best for me to be ink-stained and have a large, ungainly callus on the middle finger of my right hand. This would earn me respect from pen companies and alienation from my peers - which would help me to grow into a literary spectacle. Unfortunately, I did not put enough effort into cultivating this image. I have yet to be attained by Paper Mate as a sponsor and I interact with my classmates on a semi-regular basis.
Sometimes English just isn’t enough. Since embarking on the often-dreary journey that is high school, I have become familiar with not one, but two other languages. French was the first to drag me down, hooking me in with its irregular spelling and the way it stayed in my throat for hours. But I am insatiable. I wanted to roll my R’s. So obviously I needed Spanish. However, the romance languages have begun to bore me. Je les aime, mais ce n’est pas assez (I like them, but it’s not enough). I want to learn Russian and then bury myself in pages of Dostoevsky and Nabokov. It would be a pleasant way to fashion a funeral. After which I will master Arabic, and then Chinese, and then Norwegian. I am not likely to experience any catastrophe in the manner of the Tower of Babel because my brain is grammar sponge. Also, it is shaped like a dinosaur.
Lesser, easier schools offer these languages. Unfortunately, my future is too bright for that. I want to hone my intellect, to invest myself in my passions, grooming my long, white, scholastic beard. It will be an exhaustive process, one that I am looking forward to with much of my Dino-Brain and some of my body.
Chicago offers - beyond its location and variety of languages - an academic intensity that cannot be found anywhere else. Its courses pluck my heartstrings for their manner as well as their subject matter. If I was fortunate enough to attend, I suppose that my callus would be fully developed at the end of four years.
At some point my explosive little imagination decided that the only legitimate career for me to have would be that of a writer. After all, I did win the school spelling bee in eighth grade. In order for me to achieve in this field, I knew that it would be best for me to be ink-stained and have a large, ungainly callus on the middle finger of my right hand. This would earn me respect from pen companies and alienation from my peers - which would help me to grow into a literary spectacle. Unfortunately, I did not put enough effort into cultivating this image. I have yet to be attained by Paper Mate as a sponsor and I interact with my classmates on a semi-regular basis.
Sometimes English just isn’t enough. Since embarking on the often-dreary journey that is high school, I have become familiar with not one, but two other languages. French was the first to drag me down, hooking me in with its irregular spelling and the way it stayed in my throat for hours. But I am insatiable. I wanted to roll my R’s. So obviously I needed Spanish. However, the romance languages have begun to bore me. Je les aime, mais ce n’est pas assez (I like them, but it’s not enough). I want to learn Russian and then bury myself in pages of Dostoevsky and Nabokov. It would be a pleasant way to fashion a funeral. After which I will master Arabic, and then Chinese, and then Norwegian. I am not likely to experience any catastrophe in the manner of the Tower of Babel because my brain is grammar sponge. Also, it is shaped like a dinosaur.
Lesser, easier schools offer these languages. Unfortunately, my future is too bright for that. I want to hone my intellect, to invest myself in my passions, grooming my long, white, scholastic beard. It will be an exhaustive process, one that I am looking forward to with much of my Dino-Brain and some of my body.
Chicago offers - beyond its location and variety of languages - an academic intensity that cannot be found anywhere else. Its courses pluck my heartstrings for their manner as well as their subject matter. If I was fortunate enough to attend, I suppose that my callus would be fully developed at the end of four years.