More handpicked essays just for you.
Lessons learned from writing a personal narrative
Narrative personal writing
Lessons learned from writing a personal narrative
Don’t take our word for it - see why 10 million students trust us with their essay needs.
The Pizza Tasted Good
I was sitting in a poorly lit booth at my favorite pizza place. It was not as crowded as usual, because nobody was in town this weekend. A waiter walked by with a cheese pizza that was so hot you could see the thin lines of steam coming up from it. I was hoping he would come to my booth, but instead he walked to the booth next to me. I was so upset because I could hear my stomach grumbling. Actually, I was so hungry I would have eaten a rock! I couldn’t wait for my pizza anymore. Then the waiter came back to my booth with my order. I was so thrilled. I took a slice of pizza off of the pizza platter. “Ouch!” I yelped. It was extremely hot. I waited for it to cool off, but it was really tempting to grab a slice. Finally,
I picked a piece up when it was not too hot to burn my hand. I took a bite. I could taste the warm, doughy, thin crust. I could also taste the warm, but not hot enough to burn my tongue sweet tomato sauce. Then there was a thin layer of melted cheese. When I pulled away from my slice, I could see the strings of cheese hanging from my mouth from the pizza. It felt like a party in my mouth. Within ten minutes, I was staring at an empty platter. I was so full, I thought I had gained so much weight that I wouldn’t be able to get out of the booth. “Check please,” I said to the waiter, but he took so long that I started to feel very tired. When he finally came, I paid and slowly walked toward the exit. As I was ten feet from the door, the waiter held it open for me. I turned to say thank you, but I saw him holding a supreme pizza in his hand and I felt the urge to come back tomorrow. All I could think about that night as I fell asleep was how I was crazy about pizza.
Many people declare that pizza is the best food that they have ever tasted, or it is at least their favorite, but pizza has not gone far beyond fulfilling a sense of hunger. “The Best Pizza in the World”, by Elizabeth Gilbert, is a short story that explores how a simple pizza quenches the narrator's thirst for adventure and changes her overall attitude toward herself. In “The Best Pizza in the World”, Gilbert uses description,cause and effect; and pathos to share her experience of how a little pizzeria in Naples lead her to temporary enlightenment.
I am a grilled cheese sandwich, ready to be eaten, and ready to go through digestion. I am made up of bread, butter, and cheese. My bread is made up of carbohydrates and fiber. My cheese is made up of fat, mainly, but also contains a bit of protein and some vitamins and calcium. My butter is also mainly fat. I am lifted up into the mouth. I am chewed while saliva is produced to make me into a paste. The amylase enzymes turn the starch molecules found in my bread into glucose. This is used by cells to give humans energy. When swallowed I enter the throat, where muscles push me down into the esophagus which joins the throat and the stomach. I enter the stomach where hydrochloric acids break me down further. Protease enzymes break my proteins
Personal Narrative There lay her limp body staring up at us. Her cold eyes were no longer
As time went on, a tall man came into the room and asked me what I was doing alone in the room. I told him I was waiting for my mother to finish her case and that I wasn’t allowed to leave the room. He looked at me and smiled and told me to come with him into the Cath Lab and we could get something to eat and drink. He bought me a coffee and a burrito and had me sit in the Cath Lab in front of one of the monitors. As I was sitting in the Cath Lab my mom saw me and was not very pleased.
Leaving the bodies for last we walked down the drive to take a look. Several rifles and shotguns were leaned carefully again the big oak. Two handguns and some knives were on the grass in front of them. Four people dangled from a branch of the tree close enough to each other to bump like a weird wind chime. A young couple and the other twice their age at a guess from the gray hair and styles of dress. They were probably parents and a married son or daughter with their spouse. Other than being hung there were no injuries apparent on any of the four. From the condition of the bodies they had been dead about a day.
I moved to Fresno, California and worked as caregiver sometime in the summer 2012. I lived there for about 7 months then I moved to New York in December 2012. My friend Alvin Almonte invited me to work in New York because he said job opportunities were much better here and that New York is much more accessible. I lost my immigration status in November 2011, while I was in Arizona. In my contract, I was assured that after three years (supposedly 2009-2012), the employer would apply for my Green Card. This was clearly not the case. I was working as a temporary hotel worker with an uncertain status. I started to work as buzzer in a restaurant in New York. Currently, I am working as caregiver for the elderly.
As I walk into Hazen and begin my high school journey I think to myself what I want to accomplish when I leave. Hazen is like the older sister I never had, someone who you hate occasionally, but look up to and pushes you to achieve your personal goals. As I walk through those Highlander doors I was immediately surrounded by the brightest minds, talent, and innovative bunch of my generation. Each one unique and each one having something special to offer, and I soon realized that I want to leave high school like I was never leaving. By making the most out of my high school experience I want to gain maturity and the satisfaction of knowing I made a difference in my school and community. By becoming a member of the National
It was me and my friend in my car. We had drove over to St Louis, Missouri during the summer. We were 9 hours away when we had decided it was time to drive back home to Des Moines.
Most days end the same way. I get home at 4:00, the house is empty and quiet. I walk inside already grinning at what's to come after I put everything down. Then, in the span of two minutes, I'm sliding on the wood floors of the kitchen singing at the top of my lungs the certain song that's had the pleasure of being trapped in my head the whole day. The empty room is my stage, and whatever happens to be in my hands is my microphone.
Today i will be writing a personal narrative about an incident that changed my life. I will be talking about the time I flew over 3,000 miles to Alaska. Around the beginning of last summer my grandparents told me I was going to be going to Alaska on a cruise. In early June of last year was probably one of scariest moments of my life! I flew on a plane for the first time. The day of the flight was pretty scary; between being in an airport and going through security to actually flying on a plane! Once we got in the air I was able to relax and actually enjoy the flight. Being in the clouds and being able to look out over the earth was amazing. i'm glad i could have the experience of being on a plane with my family. We flew into Seattle which was fun because we went shopping and went to a really nice restaurant and then boarded a cruise ship that would take us through Alaska.
Melanie woke up with nothing other than research on her mind. She knew that her last name was Easton and so was her mother's. What she didn't know was if that was her mother’s married name, or for that matter, if her mother had ever been married.
One sunny afternoon my friends and I decided to go on a road trip to a small resort. We packed everything up and decided on the way across the Wisconsin Bridge that we all wanted to go to the Wisconsin Dells. This car ride was about to be long because not everyone in the car gets along.
Awaking at 7:00 a.m. on the cool morning of December 7, 2003, I prepare for a long day. I put on the spandex and T-shirt that I will wear during the tryout at Northeastern Junior College. By 7:30 a.m., my family is walking over to the neighboring hotel's restaurant for our breakfast. It did not take long to decide that I wanted two golden-brown, buttermilk pancakes with warm maple syrup for breakfast. Both of my parents knew what they wanted right away and as usual, we were all waiting for my little sister to decide. Finally, she decided on the pancakes. It took only ten minutes to get our food and what a relief that was considering my stomach sounded like there was a lion inside. The pancakes were delicious, and my dad's biscuits and gravy was yummy. However, the cinnamon roll my mom order was hard as a rock and she had to pour maple syrup over it. That did not help it at all. After breakfast, we returned for some lounge time in the hotel room.
Summer was coming to an end, the night air grew brisker and the mornings were dew covered. The sun had just started to set behind our home; my father would be home soon. I walked into the kitchen only to be greeted by my mother cooking dinner. She stood there one hand on her hip, her one leg stuck out at her side, knee slightly bent, stirring the pot holding the spoon all the way at the tip of the handle. She looked as pissed off as could be. My mother always felt she could be doing a million other things besides cooking dinner. We sat there talking until I heard a familiar soft rumble in front of our house. The rumble was accompanied by my father fidgeting at the front door. His old noisy Bronco always made his presence known. He plodded down the hallway into the kitchen to greet my mother with a peck on the cheek. After one more quick stir she plopped a hot pad on the table followed by a pan of sliced meatloaf in sauce. The smell of the meat, potatoes, and veggies filled the kitchen instantly and the family gathered around the table. The meal was a typical one in our household, my mother who had a million other things to do that day, including having her own personal time did not feel like cooking a twelve course meal. However, my father who always came home expecting steak did not see the meal as appetizing as the rest of us.
My stomach weakens with a thought that something is wrong, what would be the answer I could have never been ready for. I call my best friend late one night, for some reason she is the only person’s voice I wanted to hear, the only person who I wanted to tell me that everything will be okay. She answer’s the phone and tells me she loves me, as I hear the tears leak through, I ask her what is wrong. The flood gates open with only the horrid words “I can’t do this anymore”. My heart races as I tell her that I am on my way, what I was about to see will never leave my thoughts.