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I once melted on a hot summer day. All morning it had gotten steadily warmer and by noon the heat had gotten so intense that I felt my skin sagging from my muscles. I sat down on the couch in my living room where, in the past, I had weathered quite a few heatwaves. The left corner of the sofa was the perfect place to collect oneself in the event of sudden melting: the cushion was slanted downwards towards the backrest due to wear and on the side the armrest prevented anything spilling onto the floor. Sure, one might soak into the cushion but getting rid of that was as easy as scraping hardened wax off a piece of cloth. Even the color of the couch had been deliberately chosen to be dark coffee, so that the remnant stains wouldn't show too much.
By half-past one my whole body had turned to Jell-o and I could sense the first streams running down my body, like sweat does after an intense workout. I knew I would be fine as long as I remained in one puddle in the corner of the sofa. My girlfriend would come home and fix me right up after I cooled down in the fridge.
Half an hour later, however, things weren't looking all too good. I had started out changing phases according to plan, solid turning to jelly, turning to goo, turning to liquid and collecting in the corner, but now I realized someone had rearranged the cushions ever so slightly. Maybe it had been the dog who kept burying its snacks in the cracks of the couch, or maybe it had been my girlfriend looking for her lip gloss.
Thus, the cushion, moved by whom- or whatever, did not form a tight enough seal with the armrest and I could feel my liquidy self slowly dripping through the crack towards the front of the couch. The more my precious bodily fluids collected in the back, the more pushed forward through the crack. Within about five minutes of loosing any sort of definable human shape, the first drop pushed over the edge, ran down the front of the cushion and onto the hardwood floor below.
I assumed that after having lived in this place for five years I would have known everything there is to know about my apartment. However, due to the unusual circumstances on this particular day, I discovered that our expensive wood floor was, in fact, not completely flat, but rather slightly slanted. I made this discovery as more of my body came dripping to the floor, and the gooey mess that used to be my body started to slither towards the apartment door. The sensation of ‘running' along the floor, being dragged by gravity and guided by minute imperfections on the surface isn't very comfortable, let me tell you. It's like being tickled without being able to move or scratch the spot.
So here I was, slowly winding my way from the corner of the couch, through the crack in the cushion, onto the floor and towards the door. Right around this point I started to realize the extend of the predicament that I had gotten myself into.
Looking back, I don't think I can be blamed for the entire incident. I mean, who bends down and checks how big the space between the apartment door and the floor underneath is when they first rent an apartment? Now I had to discover this space to be a good half of an inch high, plenty of space to fit a stream of liquid underneath.
I was quickly approaching the front of the door, then I washed underneath it, and soon I was spilling onto the landing in front of the apartment. Wondering how much more liquid was pushing itself onto the floor back in the apartment, I slowly drifted further out.
(Yes, in case you were wondering, to this day I question my intelligence for renting an apartment on the top floor.)
I knew that if the remnants of my body stopped leaking onto the floor in the living room, the stream would run out of momentum and I could maybe avoid a larger disaster. I just hoped this would happen before I reached the ledge leading onto the stairs.
Alas, my luck had forsaken me completely and it seemed that the stream coming from the sofa would not dry up before parts of me reached the first step. Just before the initial drop hit the ledge I braced for the imminent impact. Though, no matter my preparation, the whole process felt extremely violent nonetheless.
First, the liquid pushed ever so slightly over the edge until surface tension lost out to gravity. Then, a total disconnect, followed by freefall and then an earth-shattering impact twelve inches below. It still gives me shudders to think about it. The first drop was the worst. You know those half-dreams were you are about to fall asleep but then suddenly jerk awake because you feel like you are falling down stairs or over a ledge? That's the feeling I had during that first drop. It did get easier after a while. The more drops landed on the ones that were already collecting on the step below, the more dampened their impacts became.
And that's how I spent my sunny, hot afternoon that day. I think I was on the 5th or 6th step down, seriously dizzy and shaken, by the time my girlfriend got home. She was whistling as she absentmindedly unlocked the door to the apartment complex at the base of the stairwell and started making her way up towards the apartment. For a fleeting moment my heart, spread halfway between the couch and step number 3, skipped a beat, as I feared she might just step over, or worse, onto me. But then she dropped the keys in her purse and looked up at me.
Two hours later my last parts had been scrapped off the couch and scooped into the big bowl we always kept pre-cooled in the fridge for just these occasions. I've never felt so dirty, let me tell you. Our wooden floors (put in so that cleaning would be easier) had not seen a mop for months and I don't even want to know what sort of thing I flowed through on the landing and steps.
Since the incidence, we've put in one of those blow-up baby pools so that I can ‘collect' more easily whenever I am getting too hot. I am also auditing a course on fluid dynamics at the local university. We are contemplating a move to colder climates where the risk of these incidences is smaller, but my girlfriend will probably get her way (as usual) and we'll just put in an AC for the apartment and stay here.
In the end, the whole experience taught me important lessons about myself, (the apartment's quality of floor construction,) my medical condition, and what it means to be truly helpless.
I knew long before this experience that I wanted to go to medical school. Ever since I was diagnosed with my unusual disorder I felt the need to learn more about it, about how it was affecting my body, and what I could do to limit its effect on my daily life. This hunger for medical knowledge grew over the years. I wanted to learn more about other medical conditions, about the human body that so often betrays us with disease and dysfunction, and about the various kinds of medical professions that have been established to provide care for those in need.
However, that day, flowing across my apartment floor and onto the steps, I discovered what it meant to be truly helpless – a state of being I know a lot of the patients that I have met can identify with and which they fear above all else. I want to attend medical school to become a physician who can help his patients to overcome that fear. I want to develop into a doctor who eases that fear in times when my patients are most vulnerable. I wish to be the person who picks them up off the hardwood floor and restores them to their former strength and health.
------
If try and pass this off as your own PS in your application: a) shame on you! b) you got balls.
By half-past one my whole body had turned to Jell-o and I could sense the first streams running down my body, like sweat does after an intense workout. I knew I would be fine as long as I remained in one puddle in the corner of the sofa. My girlfriend would come home and fix me right up after I cooled down in the fridge.
Half an hour later, however, things weren't looking all too good. I had started out changing phases according to plan, solid turning to jelly, turning to goo, turning to liquid and collecting in the corner, but now I realized someone had rearranged the cushions ever so slightly. Maybe it had been the dog who kept burying its snacks in the cracks of the couch, or maybe it had been my girlfriend looking for her lip gloss.
Thus, the cushion, moved by whom- or whatever, did not form a tight enough seal with the armrest and I could feel my liquidy self slowly dripping through the crack towards the front of the couch. The more my precious bodily fluids collected in the back, the more pushed forward through the crack. Within about five minutes of loosing any sort of definable human shape, the first drop pushed over the edge, ran down the front of the cushion and onto the hardwood floor below.
I assumed that after having lived in this place for five years I would have known everything there is to know about my apartment. However, due to the unusual circumstances on this particular day, I discovered that our expensive wood floor was, in fact, not completely flat, but rather slightly slanted. I made this discovery as more of my body came dripping to the floor, and the gooey mess that used to be my body started to slither towards the apartment door. The sensation of ‘running' along the floor, being dragged by gravity and guided by minute imperfections on the surface isn't very comfortable, let me tell you. It's like being tickled without being able to move or scratch the spot.
So here I was, slowly winding my way from the corner of the couch, through the crack in the cushion, onto the floor and towards the door. Right around this point I started to realize the extend of the predicament that I had gotten myself into.
Looking back, I don't think I can be blamed for the entire incident. I mean, who bends down and checks how big the space between the apartment door and the floor underneath is when they first rent an apartment? Now I had to discover this space to be a good half of an inch high, plenty of space to fit a stream of liquid underneath.
I was quickly approaching the front of the door, then I washed underneath it, and soon I was spilling onto the landing in front of the apartment. Wondering how much more liquid was pushing itself onto the floor back in the apartment, I slowly drifted further out.
(Yes, in case you were wondering, to this day I question my intelligence for renting an apartment on the top floor.)
I knew that if the remnants of my body stopped leaking onto the floor in the living room, the stream would run out of momentum and I could maybe avoid a larger disaster. I just hoped this would happen before I reached the ledge leading onto the stairs.
Alas, my luck had forsaken me completely and it seemed that the stream coming from the sofa would not dry up before parts of me reached the first step. Just before the initial drop hit the ledge I braced for the imminent impact. Though, no matter my preparation, the whole process felt extremely violent nonetheless.
First, the liquid pushed ever so slightly over the edge until surface tension lost out to gravity. Then, a total disconnect, followed by freefall and then an earth-shattering impact twelve inches below. It still gives me shudders to think about it. The first drop was the worst. You know those half-dreams were you are about to fall asleep but then suddenly jerk awake because you feel like you are falling down stairs or over a ledge? That's the feeling I had during that first drop. It did get easier after a while. The more drops landed on the ones that were already collecting on the step below, the more dampened their impacts became.
And that's how I spent my sunny, hot afternoon that day. I think I was on the 5th or 6th step down, seriously dizzy and shaken, by the time my girlfriend got home. She was whistling as she absentmindedly unlocked the door to the apartment complex at the base of the stairwell and started making her way up towards the apartment. For a fleeting moment my heart, spread halfway between the couch and step number 3, skipped a beat, as I feared she might just step over, or worse, onto me. But then she dropped the keys in her purse and looked up at me.
Two hours later my last parts had been scrapped off the couch and scooped into the big bowl we always kept pre-cooled in the fridge for just these occasions. I've never felt so dirty, let me tell you. Our wooden floors (put in so that cleaning would be easier) had not seen a mop for months and I don't even want to know what sort of thing I flowed through on the landing and steps.
Since the incidence, we've put in one of those blow-up baby pools so that I can ‘collect' more easily whenever I am getting too hot. I am also auditing a course on fluid dynamics at the local university. We are contemplating a move to colder climates where the risk of these incidences is smaller, but my girlfriend will probably get her way (as usual) and we'll just put in an AC for the apartment and stay here.
In the end, the whole experience taught me important lessons about myself, (the apartment's quality of floor construction,) my medical condition, and what it means to be truly helpless.
I knew long before this experience that I wanted to go to medical school. Ever since I was diagnosed with my unusual disorder I felt the need to learn more about it, about how it was affecting my body, and what I could do to limit its effect on my daily life. This hunger for medical knowledge grew over the years. I wanted to learn more about other medical conditions, about the human body that so often betrays us with disease and dysfunction, and about the various kinds of medical professions that have been established to provide care for those in need.
However, that day, flowing across my apartment floor and onto the steps, I discovered what it meant to be truly helpless – a state of being I know a lot of the patients that I have met can identify with and which they fear above all else. I want to attend medical school to become a physician who can help his patients to overcome that fear. I want to develop into a doctor who eases that fear in times when my patients are most vulnerable. I wish to be the person who picks them up off the hardwood floor and restores them to their former strength and health.
------
If try and pass this off as your own PS in your application: a) shame on you! b) you got balls.
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