Personal Statement. Take 2.

Worst Important Essay I have Ever Written. One of the best essays I have written in twenty minutes. I'm not going to get a single dime. Pulling the pity card. Twenty minutes. What do you expect.

They say that the grass is always greener on the other side, which might be true since I live on the Other Side of the River. In fact a friend’s mom wouldn’t let her come over once because I “live in the Ghetto.” I am privileged enough to attend Dublin City Schools but I do not live in Dublin. My parents got divorced when I was younger due to my father’s gambling addiction and now we rely on my mother’s small business as a trade show vendor that aches with the economy. I maintain a job, working on average 25 hours a week, and I choose to remain involved in school while balancing a 4.0 GPA, because I can and because I care.

I may be on the peripheral of the perfect Dublin bubble, but everybody faces obstacles. And often times one will find that obstacles can be the most empowering. The obstacles that I have seen in my short lifetime of seventeen years forced me to become a problem solver. They forced me to either sidestep that challenge or to twist it around and use it to my advantage. Call me an idealist and I’ll tell you it’s my reality. I believe in the power of will. I am what I make myself out to be. If you did not ask for me to “address my financial need,” I would not have because I want to be acknowledged for my actions, not my circumstances. Success is earned, not given. And success to me is to impact another being’s life—not just for the better, but for good. Before I can significantly affect someone else, I first must begin with myself. I am asking for this scholarship because the grass might be greener on the other side, but I know how to water my lawn.

Personal Statement.

I dread success. To have succeeded is to have finished one's business on earth, like the male spider, who is killed by the female the moment he has succeeded in his courtship. I like a state of continual becoming, with a goal in front and not behind.

George Bernard Shaw

I AM THE AMERICAN DREAM, except better looking. And smarter.

Megan Chen’s Personal Statement.

Because one of the requirements to apply for every single scholarship is to write a “personal statement” –whatever the fuck that is—I will. BUT. Rest assured, I don’t have any idea what I’m doing and I am really unhappy about it and I will bitch the entire way. Plus I feel like I can’t do this properly without gauging my friends and family for their opinion of me. Which could only go one of two ways…I will either cry because nobody likes me or I’ll cry because people are feeding me bullshit that they love me and I will believe it completely and never doubt a single word. I LOVE BULLSHIT. Go ahead. Tell me I’m pretty. Actually, this is a personal statement. I’ll tell you I’m pretty. I’m pretty. And brilliant. And just a well-rounded freakin’ awesome individual who has twelve-year-old-boy humor and dresses like a trendy mom. You’d think this would average out to seventeen year old girl but really it’s just one hot mess, emphasis on the hot. Because in addition to all of those other desirable qualities, I am also one hot piece of ass. I mean, I run cross country. Technically. I mean, I’ve been a gimp my entire life but if you tell me cripples can’t run too I will go civil rights on you and sue your ass. The outcome of which would probably amount to more than any scholarship I’ve applied to thus far (zero). I haven’t had this bad of writer’s block since…the last time I had to write something important. Well fuck me. It’s probably not okay to say the word ‘fuck’ in a personal statement. Well, fuck you. I guess I won’t win this or any other damn scholarship. But if you don’t award me something substantstial, you will feel bad. Just look at me. Just look at me. I can personally state that: I am a needy child. I am not white. I am a first generation American. I do not have a penis. And I have an extremely foul mouth which can only shine light on my troubled home life. I wasn’t raised properly. But through trial comes success. Yeah. In other words. MY LIFE SUCKS BUT I’M STILL A HOT PIECE OF ASS. GIVE ME MONEY. 

Personal statement--check.
Now for Sam Tsui and his beautiful voice.

Submit. More Boys.

I’m ugly when I cry. I am not pretty to begin with (and I’m not just being modest) but when I cry, I am ugly. Bright red splotches splatter my already acne-ridden cheeks, the right corner of my mouth and the right corner of my mouth alone drags all the way to hell, and my eyebrows are permanently furrowed while my nose seems like it suffers from epilepsy as it shudders and whimpers and gasps for oxygen. And snot. And my already soaking sleeve wiping away the snot. And my hand that attempts to replace my sleeve but is vain for trying. No. I am not good looking when I cry. I discovered this a week and a day after my eleventh birthday—a week and a day after my parents’ divorce. I didn’t even know I was sad until I put down my sparkly notepad, paused for just a minute, and began gushing. Everything came all at once. No gradual ascent, no subtle transition from quivering lip to full on heaving; I was a broken dam and I was drowning. Somewhere among the wreckage, materialized the carnal desire to look at my reflection, because at eleven years, one week, and a day, I longed to see myself at my most pitiful state. And I was not disappointed. Just shocked. It was hard to try to take it all in as I pulled at the fraying carpet, staring at the full length mirror. My features were swollen and distorted underneath homemade bangs recklessly matted to the side of my head, and I could no longer distinguish from exactly which portal the most fluid was being excreted. I was a mess. I was a monster. I was pathetic. I was just enough to convince myself to avoid this vulnerable state of being at all costs or at least never let anyone else see me so susceptible to pain. So that’s exactly what I did: I replaced tears with laughter and suddenly, the weight of the world became lighter, everything became a joke, and the heaviest substances became my best material. Who cares if I’m sad, I just want to be funny. What began as a meager way to cope has indisputably become a part of me and slowly converted into a renewed sense of optimism. Even in the worst of times, I know that as long as I can crack a joke, I will be okay. I am not so terribly against the idea of crying anymore either, because every once in awhile, that’s what it really takes. Plus, I am continually comforted by the fact that after three rolls of toilet paper and an entire sleeve of Girl Scout cookies, somewhere out there is a one-liner that will keep me sane and keep me smiling.