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The Small Places Where People Intersect

You, my college admissions officer, wake up and drink coffee and go to work and read this essay and make a decision about whether or not I am right for your college. I think this relationship is one sided, because you know more about me than I’d like to admit. 

You know I am a teenager. You know my grade point average, the length of my hair, my middle name, where I go to school, where I want to go to school, and you want to know more. I know nothing about you. I know that you probably have brown eyes. I know that you have probably fallen in love. I know that you read a thousand of these essays every day.

I hope you like your job. I hope you still like one or two essays out of every pile.  I hope, for my sake and for yours, that you are a great person, but I know that you are just a person who is something like me: who hates a few celebrities, who has seen Rocky, and who has secrets you wouldn’t even tell me if we were best friends. 

I am reducing you, making you so small that you can fit in my cupboard comfortably. I know, in some small part of myself, that you can subsist on old newspapers and college essays alone. I want to know you in the simplest way one person can know another person, and I think that it’s sad that I never will, and that this essay could just as well have been written by anonymous.