I heard a crash as a vase fell to the floor in the living room. Someone knocked into the wall, stumbling around. Muffled noises and the sound of my own heartbeat filled my ears as I stood panicked in my room across the house. Bam! A table fell over. I was supposed to be home alone. Hurriedly, I called my parents. They always knew what to do. Ring ring! No answer. Like drops spilling from a broken tap, the sound of my mother telling me I was her sunshine repeated over and over again in my head. Taking a deep breath, I decided I had to handle this myself. I grabbed a pair of child’s scissors - the only sort of weapon like object I had in my room - and gingerly took small, quiet steps into the hallway. I was no longer afraid. My heart was no longer beating out of my chest, and my breaths normalized; I believed I could handle my intruder. With my newfound confidence, I decided to call out. Who’s there? The sound reverberated through my house. When no answer came, I decided it was time to step out into the living room, with my child scissor’s at the ready, prepared to attack any being that came near me. I looked around the room, yet encountered no human figure. However, at the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of movement. I quickly pivoted, poised with my weapon out in front of me. Crash! It quickly dropped to the floor. In front of me was not the intruder I expected; instead, it stood with a furry brown body, a bushy tail, and a base quivering with fear. It was a squirrel. I quickly yelped and sprinted out the house, leaving my intruder behind, unbeknownst to how it managed to enter my house and make a disaster of everything. For some reason, this small rodent filled me with more fear than a unknown human would. This story is one of my favorites to tell. Though I possess a repertoire of anecdotes to share, I feel this one represents me the best. My foolishly high confidence, lame defensive skills, and fear of rodents genuinely shine through. My friends recount this day as one where I showed up their homes, crying of both laughter and fear. I’ve always been a storyteller. I love telling stories that inspire people, or make them laugh, or make them cry. My favorite interest is to see how different people react to the same story, and then pretend I’m a therapist who can psychoanalyze why this particular person reacted this particular way, and then visualizing a story in my head about why this person reacted this way, usually ending with some dramatic event and them looking off into the distance, into the depths of my brain. And though I wish I had more words to tell the story of my life to the person deciding if I should be admitted to their college or not, I am limited to a count of 650, so I’ll say this; my love of stories inspire me to soak in all the experiences in life that I can, and will inspire me to chase after all the opportunities offered in college. I hope to gather stories of how I studied all night to ace my test, how my school achieved something great, how my professor impacted me in a way I never knew a teacher could. And one day, years after my graduation, I hope to tell the story of my how my college led me to a life of a success.