09-01-2003, 12:43 AM
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#1 (permalink)
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love/hate letter turned into application essay for NYU
Backstory: there was a girl, and I wrote her a long letter telling her why we couldn't be friends anymore, and I posted it publically, and people liked it to the point of suggesting that I use it for my dramatic essay to apply to NYU. I fixed it up and sent in what you see below:
Quote:
In the midst of a particularly frustrating math problem, I hear my computer give a familiar chime. I look up and see that an online message has popped up. From her.
What she says is: I know you’ll probably never want to talk to me again, but I just want to say that I’m sorry for whatever I did, I truly am very sorry.
A message from the first and last person I wanted to hear from right now. Unable to work at my desk with her words staring me down, I flop down on my bed and stare at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. In trying to forget the message, and the girl who sent it, I start to remember everything.
People have often smirked at my seemingly concrete idea of exactly what love is. No, I tell them, I have no idea what love is. What I do have, however, is a fairly strong base of exactly what love is not.
Life seems to have started with the first time I saw her, and my feelings for her seem deeply rooted in my memory. Further back, however, is a feeling I can recall with even more clarity, a feeling of just plain not liking myself. You don't need to know why I was the unpopular kid; that story can be told by a great many, with better stories than I have. Kids who shine are told to shine brighter, and the ones who don't are told that it's okay to snub the popular ones. They're encouraged to. They're just different.
I reminisce for a second, and glance at the screen to see if she has anything to add to her cure-all apology. She doesn’t, so my eyes back roll back to the pale green stars.
My friends at the time and I would envelop ourselves in a world of videogames, computers and dirty jokes, telling each other that we were better because we weren't the best. We all believed this to the extent that we did not believe this at all. Everyone knows that the high school limelight matters little after graduation; everyone also knows that hapless animals are cruelly slaughtered to make our food.
Knowledge versus acknowledgement. That's the problem.
Many are able to get through the high school because they can rely on some personal, infallible support. For the lucky ones, it can be their lovers, friends, or family, usually prioritized in that order. For the strong ones, it may be their hardened resolve. As for the weak ones, well, they’re the ones that providing the media with headlines and giving the older generation reason to complain about the declining stock of today’s youth.
I look at the screen, because I can’t hate myself for checking again unless I check again. Same message. She’s still waiting for a reply.
Details will be spared here, because they can be built endlessly from the core situation, with the final result being the same. I fell for a girl because she was the first to ever make me feel truly considered, and also put a halt to my habit of self-dislike. She dated. I waited. I bided my time even when she was single, for I knew nothing else. How do you approach the first perfect thing you’ve ever noticed?
You don't. You wait for her to notice you.
Get a chair and a good book, because the wait will be long.
So, I decide to be good friends with her, which means I'm going to love her even more but try to make it less obvious. But as I sit fidgeting, ever waiting for her to notice, I begin to notice a few things myself: my friendship, let alone my feelings, is reciprocated halfheartedly. I notice a trend of me fitting into her life at her whim.
So I get angry. And bitter. I wonder what has become of my life, how I became this sorry excuse for a secret admirer. And all those feelings of self-dislike come back in a flood that nearly pushes me over the edge and what holds me back are the best friends who'll never know that they stand right between me and a downward spiral.
So I leave. I stop talking to her. She never calls me, so this is easy. Once my absence is pointed out to her, she feels compelled to apologize with an online message. And here I am.
I sit up on my bed, and face the sentence that’s been mocking me for the past half an hour. I consider her words for a bit longer. I wonder about this girl who could leave me feeling so powerless, and I wonder what I’m going to do now that I have my own power once again.
A little gray window presents the dialogue: Are you sure you want to sign off?
I click yes.
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On a side note, I didn't get into NYU, but I'm still quite proud of myself for being able to write this essay. I know there's some grammatical errors in it, so don't bother, just comment on what you think of it otherwise. Thanks  . |
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