Robotic AI essays

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:In the 1980s AO's were saying it was cheating if you used a word processor. You need to look up a word in a dictionary yourself for spelling and not have the word processor do it for you.

AI is the same. People who dont know how to use it think it is generating robotic essays. You need to learn to tune the prompts 10 level deep to get results that wow AO's. People not using AI are going to be at a huge disadvantage.

How can it not be? You are bringing a knife to a gun fight.

Ridiculous. Every single word you wrote.

I took it word for word from Dartmouth Admissions Beat Podcast!

Got it, you idiot?

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:In the 1980s AO's were saying it was cheating if you used a word processor. You need to look up a word in a dictionary yourself for spelling and not have the word processor do it for you.

AI is the same. People who dont know how to use it think it is generating robotic essays. You need to learn to tune the prompts 10 level deep to get results that wow AO's. People not using AI are going to be at a huge disadvantage.

How can it not be? You are bringing a knife to a gun fight.

Ridiculous. Every single word you wrote.

I took it word for word from Dartmouth Admissions Beat Podcast!

Got it, you idiot?

Ah, so neither you nor your kid are capable of thinking for themselves. Makes sense.

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:In the 1980s AO's were saying it was cheating if you used a word processor. You need to look up a word in a dictionary yourself for spelling and not have the word processor do it for you.

AI is the same. People who dont know how to use it think it is generating robotic essays. You need to learn to tune the prompts 10 level deep to get results that wow AO's. People not using AI are going to be at a huge disadvantage.

How can it not be? You are bringing a knife to a gun fight.

Ridiculous. Every single word you wrote.

I took it word for word from Dartmouth Admissions Beat Podcast!

Got it, you idiot?

Ah, so neither you nor your kid are capable of thinking for themselves. Makes sense.

You are still an idiot. LOL

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:This would be an easy T20 admit:

The first sound I ever associated with comfort wasn’t a lullaby or the hush of bedtime stories—it was the crackle of sizzling rice in my grandmother’s wok. When she cooked, every sound, smell, and motion became part of a choreography she had mastered over decades. Garlic hit the oil like punctuation marks, sharp and precise. Soy sauce hissed, sweet and smoky. Rice sizzled and popped until each grain turned crisp, golden, and alive. My grandmother never used recipes; she relied on instinct, tasting and adjusting as she went. Watching her, I began to understand that cooking—and by extension, life—was about balance, attention, and transformation.

Now, when I think about how I approach learning, I realize I inherited her kitchen philosophy. In school, I treat knowledge like a collection of ingredients: each subject has its own flavor, texture, and challenge. Math is the structure—the starch that holds everything together. Literature is the seasoning, revealing subtle layers of human experience. Science is the heat, transforming raw observation into understanding. I’ve learned that education isn’t about mastering one recipe and repeating it perfectly. It’s about experimenting with proportions, blending different elements, and knowing when to trust my instincts.

Like my grandmother, I often find meaning in the process, not just the result. When I write essays, I hear her voice reminding me to “taste as you go.” I draft, step back, and revise—not unlike adding a pinch of salt to bring out hidden flavors. When I study chemistry, I see echoes of her cooking: precise measurements, reactions that depend on timing, and a touch of creativity that turns repetition into discovery. She once told me that the secret to perfect sizzling rice was listening—really listening—to the sound it makes just before it burns. In the same way, I’ve learned to listen closely: to my teachers’ feedback, to the unspoken questions in a text, and to the quiet thoughts that surface when I’m alone.

That listening deepened during my neighborhood walks, which have become a kind of moving meditation. I started walking regularly during the pandemic, when the world seemed both frozen and chaotic. Each route became its own lesson. There’s the corner house with the overflowing garden where an elderly man waves at every passerby—a reminder that small kindnesses can anchor a community. There’s the cracked sidewalk where weeds push through concrete, a quiet symbol of resilience. There’s the hill that makes my legs ache but rewards me with a view of rooftops fading into the horizon, teaching me that perspective often comes after effort.

Walking also helps me process the ingredients of my day. I think about what went well, what I’d like to improve, what new spices of experience I can add tomorrow. I notice how every detail—the smell of rain, the rhythm of footsteps, the echo of laughter from a nearby park—connects me to the world beyond myself. These walks remind me that learning isn’t confined to classrooms or textbooks. It happens in moments of curiosity, empathy, and reflection—in every question I ask and every pattern I notice.

My grandmother never finished school, but she taught me one of the most important academic habits: patience. When her rice stuck to the wok, she didn’t panic; she adjusted the flame. When she ran out of an ingredient, she improvised. Her kitchen was a lab where errors were invitations, not failures. That same mindset guides me as a student. When I struggle with a math proof or stumble through a new language, I don’t see it as a dead end but as a simmering problem waiting to release its flavor. I’ve learned to approach challenges not as obstacles but as ingredients that, when handled carefully, enrich the final dish.

As I prepare for college, I find myself drawn to environments that value curiosity and collaboration—the academic equivalent of a bustling kitchen, where ideas are exchanged like shared plates. I want to study in a place where I can bring my own spices to the mix and learn from others’ recipes for thinking. I imagine late-night study sessions that feel like cooking marathons: messy, unpredictable, but ultimately nourishing.

When I cook now, I still hear the crackle of sizzling rice, but I also hear something else—the quiet rhythm of my own growth. Each grain that leaps from the wok reminds me that learning is alive, kinetic, and a little unpredictable. Just like my grandmother’s dishes, my education will never be about following a single recipe. It will be about tasting, adjusting, and daring to create something that reflects who I am becoming.

A tour de force.

Easy HYPSM admit.

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:AI is grading the essays now, so just ask the AI to grade the essay it writes and change it if it doesn't like the essay.

LOL!

The whole idea of essays is stupid anyway. Shouldn’t even be required. Especially the why school why major. It just shows how well the applicant can research their website.

Yes, that's the point. AI can do it better though.

[Anonymous]

The whole admission is stupid. Why should students be a superman to be admitted? Why should people pay so much to buy _college experiences_ and _connections_? Even for the STEM degree, companies would rather hire h1b or outsource or use AI.... it is so hopeless this rat race

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:This would be an easy T20 admit:

The first sound I ever associated with comfort wasn’t a lullaby or the hush of bedtime stories—it was the crackle of sizzling rice in my grandmother’s wok. When she cooked, every sound, smell, and motion became part of a choreography she had mastered over decades. Garlic hit the oil like punctuation marks, sharp and precise. Soy sauce hissed, sweet and smoky. Rice sizzled and popped until each grain turned crisp, golden, and alive. My grandmother never used recipes; she relied on instinct, tasting and adjusting as she went. Watching her, I began to understand that cooking—and by extension, life—was about balance, attention, and transformation.

Now, when I think about how I approach learning, I realize I inherited her kitchen philosophy. In school, I treat knowledge like a collection of ingredients: each subject has its own flavor, texture, and challenge. Math is the structure—the starch that holds everything together. Literature is the seasoning, revealing subtle layers of human experience. Science is the heat, transforming raw observation into understanding. I’ve learned that education isn’t about mastering one recipe and repeating it perfectly. It’s about experimenting with proportions, blending different elements, and knowing when to trust my instincts.

Like my grandmother, I often find meaning in the process, not just the result. When I write essays, I hear her voice reminding me to “taste as you go.” I draft, step back, and revise—not unlike adding a pinch of salt to bring out hidden flavors. When I study chemistry, I see echoes of her cooking: precise measurements, reactions that depend on timing, and a touch of creativity that turns repetition into discovery. She once told me that the secret to perfect sizzling rice was listening—really listening—to the sound it makes just before it burns. In the same way, I’ve learned to listen closely: to my teachers’ feedback, to the unspoken questions in a text, and to the quiet thoughts that surface when I’m alone.

That listening deepened during my neighborhood walks, which have become a kind of moving meditation. I started walking regularly during the pandemic, when the world seemed both frozen and chaotic. Each route became its own lesson. There’s the corner house with the overflowing garden where an elderly man waves at every passerby—a reminder that small kindnesses can anchor a community. There’s the cracked sidewalk where weeds push through concrete, a quiet symbol of resilience. There’s the hill that makes my legs ache but rewards me with a view of rooftops fading into the horizon, teaching me that perspective often comes after effort.

Walking also helps me process the ingredients of my day. I think about what went well, what I’d like to improve, what new spices of experience I can add tomorrow. I notice how every detail—the smell of rain, the rhythm of footsteps, the echo of laughter from a nearby park—connects me to the world beyond myself. These walks remind me that learning isn’t confined to classrooms or textbooks. It happens in moments of curiosity, empathy, and reflection—in every question I ask and every pattern I notice.

My grandmother never finished school, but she taught me one of the most important academic habits: patience. When her rice stuck to the wok, she didn’t panic; she adjusted the flame. When she ran out of an ingredient, she improvised. Her kitchen was a lab where errors were invitations, not failures. That same mindset guides me as a student. When I struggle with a math proof or stumble through a new language, I don’t see it as a dead end but as a simmering problem waiting to release its flavor. I’ve learned to approach challenges not as obstacles but as ingredients that, when handled carefully, enrich the final dish.

As I prepare for college, I find myself drawn to environments that value curiosity and collaboration—the academic equivalent of a bustling kitchen, where ideas are exchanged like shared plates. I want to study in a place where I can bring my own spices to the mix and learn from others’ recipes for thinking. I imagine late-night study sessions that feel like cooking marathons: messy, unpredictable, but ultimately nourishing.

When I cook now, I still hear the crackle of sizzling rice, but I also hear something else—the quiet rhythm of my own growth. Each grain that leaps from the wok reminds me that learning is alive, kinetic, and a little unpredictable. Just like my grandmother’s dishes, my education will never be about following a single recipe. It will be about tasting, adjusting, and daring to create something that reflects who I am becoming.

A tour de force.

Easy HYPSM admit.

Right. Bad Chat GPT....like really bad.

[Anonymous]

The colleges are scoring them through AI.

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:

Anonymous wrote:This would be an easy T20 admit:

The first sound I ever associated with comfort wasn’t a lullaby or the hush of bedtime stories—it was the crackle of sizzling rice in my grandmother’s wok. When she cooked, every sound, smell, and motion became part of a choreography she had mastered over decades. Garlic hit the oil like punctuation marks, sharp and precise. Soy sauce hissed, sweet and smoky. Rice sizzled and popped until each grain turned crisp, golden, and alive. My grandmother never used recipes; she relied on instinct, tasting and adjusting as she went. Watching her, I began to understand that cooking—and by extension, life—was about balance, attention, and transformation.

Now, when I think about how I approach learning, I realize I inherited her kitchen philosophy. In school, I treat knowledge like a collection of ingredients: each subject has its own flavor, texture, and challenge. Math is the structure—the starch that holds everything together. Literature is the seasoning, revealing subtle layers of human experience. Science is the heat, transforming raw observation into understanding. I’ve learned that education isn’t about mastering one recipe and repeating it perfectly. It’s about experimenting with proportions, blending different elements, and knowing when to trust my instincts.

Like my grandmother, I often find meaning in the process, not just the result. When I write essays, I hear her voice reminding me to “taste as you go.” I draft, step back, and revise—not unlike adding a pinch of salt to bring out hidden flavors. When I study chemistry, I see echoes of her cooking: precise measurements, reactions that depend on timing, and a touch of creativity that turns repetition into discovery. She once told me that the secret to perfect sizzling rice was listening—really listening—to the sound it makes just before it burns. In the same way, I’ve learned to listen closely: to my teachers’ feedback, to the unspoken questions in a text, and to the quiet thoughts that surface when I’m alone.

That listening deepened during my neighborhood walks, which have become a kind of moving meditation. I started walking regularly during the pandemic, when the world seemed both frozen and chaotic. Each route became its own lesson. There’s the corner house with the overflowing garden where an elderly man waves at every passerby—a reminder that small kindnesses can anchor a community. There’s the cracked sidewalk where weeds push through concrete, a quiet symbol of resilience. There’s the hill that makes my legs ache but rewards me with a view of rooftops fading into the horizon, teaching me that perspective often comes after effort.

Walking also helps me process the ingredients of my day. I think about what went well, what I’d like to improve, what new spices of experience I can add tomorrow. I notice how every detail—the smell of rain, the rhythm of footsteps, the echo of laughter from a nearby park—connects me to the world beyond myself. These walks remind me that learning isn’t confined to classrooms or textbooks. It happens in moments of curiosity, empathy, and reflection—in every question I ask and every pattern I notice.

My grandmother never finished school, but she taught me one of the most important academic habits: patience. When her rice stuck to the wok, she didn’t panic; she adjusted the flame. When she ran out of an ingredient, she improvised. Her kitchen was a lab where errors were invitations, not failures. That same mindset guides me as a student. When I struggle with a math proof or stumble through a new language, I don’t see it as a dead end but as a simmering problem waiting to release its flavor. I’ve learned to approach challenges not as obstacles but as ingredients that, when handled carefully, enrich the final dish.

As I prepare for college, I find myself drawn to environments that value curiosity and collaboration—the academic equivalent of a bustling kitchen, where ideas are exchanged like shared plates. I want to study in a place where I can bring my own spices to the mix and learn from others’ recipes for thinking. I imagine late-night study sessions that feel like cooking marathons: messy, unpredictable, but ultimately nourishing.

When I cook now, I still hear the crackle of sizzling rice, but I also hear something else—the quiet rhythm of my own growth. Each grain that leaps from the wok reminds me that learning is alive, kinetic, and a little unpredictable. Just like my grandmother’s dishes, my education will never be about following a single recipe. It will be about tasting, adjusting, and daring to create something that reflects who I am becoming.

A tour de force.

Easy HYPSM admit.

Right. Bad Chat GPT....like really bad.

Yes, soulless, an essay where the voice of the applicant is scrubbed out of it.

[Anonymous]

In one year we will be laughing that ai generated was disallowed. In fact Everything should be ai generated

[Anonymous]

Just lisented to a podcast about AI in essays from ingenius prep.

Basically, using it to brainstorm can help and improve, but copying output won't and sounds too generic with not enough info.

They expect essays to change in 2 years.

A lot more short answers where it's harder to "write your way" out.

or proctored essays.

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:My kid is at Princeton and they shared college essays their first few months of schools. It started when seniors back in HS asked my kid about his essay and he asked his roommates, etc.

Long story short - they were all pretty meh. Sizzling rice w grandma. Commutes from poor neighborhood to rich one.. The books on my bookcase spanning diary of a wimpy kid to Cervantes. Tutoring this immigrant taught me about linguistics

This stuff doesn't matter as much as people think

I came across the 27 (?) outstanding college essays posted by “the college essay guy.” The kids who “wrote” them apparently have gotten into top elite colleges. There are only very few outstanding ones. Most are just fine. Go figure!

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:As much as I complained about all the additional questions/essays for Ivies/T10/20s- I do think that’s what helped my unhooked kids do so well in admissions because it allowed them to show a fuller picture of who they are. This year with a few schools doing strictly common app- there’s less of a full view of the kid (and at the top schools everyone is a 4.0uw/35-36ACT/Great ECs, etc- so this helped show personality,

I like those cute 35-word questions in the Yale application. UMD has a bunch of open-ended questions too, though their word limits are also open-ended😁

The responses can certainly add different dimensions to your profile. I also like the idea of doing a very short video clip.

Of course all this is tons of work!!!

[Anonymous]

Anonymous wrote:Essays are stupid. So many ridiculous unwritten rules about what to write about and what not to write about. At this point the process of writing and reviewing essays seems to be little more than fancy random number generator, except that a lottery would feel fair while this process seems designed to stress kids out and make them feel bad.

Essay requirements are great for good writers, and good writers recognize how superficial and obvious AI generated content is.

[Anonymous]

Why is grandpa never cooking?