Johan and Eric, two computer geeks with little social experience, ran into each other at the college entrance.
“That’s a great bike you have there! What made you get it?” Eric asked Johan.
Johan got off the bike, removed his helmet and responded: “I didn’t purchase it, Andrea gave it to me as a gift.”
“As a GIFT?!” Eric exclaimed in surprise, “I always knew she was into you, but this is taking it to a whole new level!”
Johan smiled and told him: “Yesterday I was strolling in the park and I saw Andrea on this bike. She came to me without saying anything, tossed the bike aside, then took off all her clothes and said ‘Take whatever you want!'”
Eric’s jaw was hanging loose.
“So, I took the bike.” Johan finished.
Eric nodded in agreement and stated: “Good decision, her clothes wouldn’t fit you.”
A group of prospective students and parents followed a chipper tour guide, their footsteps echoing softly against the ancient stone pathways.
As they rounded a corner, the group slowed. A peculiar scene unfolded before them: a dozen students, each with a clipboard in hand and a pencil tucked behind their ear, crawled across the courtyard on their hands and knees, eyes scanning the bricks with laser focus.
Whispers rippled through the group. One woman finally voiced the question on everyone’s mind.
“What on earth are they doing?”
The guide, unfazed, turned to her with a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Each year,” he replied with a grin, “The upperclassmen ask the freshmen how many bricks it took to finish paving this courtyard.”
A few people chuckled. One man even started counting under his breath, eyes darting across the wide space.
As they moved on, leaving the freshmen to their calculations, the woman leaned closer to the guide, lowering her voice.
“So,” she asked, “what’s the real answer?”
The guide stopped and turned, his eyes twinkling. Then, with the flair of a magician revealing the final card in his deck, he said:
“One.”
For weeks, Jamie had worked on the final essay—drafting, editing, second-guessing every word.
When he finally submitted it, Jamie felt a flicker of pride. Three days later, he got the paper back with a single note scribbled in red ink across the top: “Needs Improvement.”
No comments. No suggestions. Just that. Cold. Brutal.
Confused, a little crushed, Jamie rewrote the entire essay. He restructured his arguments, added clearer transitions, changed the conclusion. He even checked the punctuation with a grammar plugin he didn’t fully trust. Then, he submitted it again.
Two days later—same result. “Needs Improvement.”
This time, frustration flared. Jamie spent a full weekend reworking it line by line. He buried himself in the library, pulled academic references from obscure journals, refined every sentence like it was a poem. He didn’t just improve the essay—he transformed it. Font. Format. Flow. Everything.
When he printed the final version, it looked like something that should be framed.
Jamie marched into professor’s office and placed it firmly on the desk.
“This is it,” he said, almost breathless. “I have read it twenty times. Cross-checked every source. Triple-proofed every paragraph. This is the best I’ve ever written—possibly the best I can write. If this still needs improvement, I’m not sure what else to give.”
The professor looked up from a pile of papers, raised an eyebrow, and slowly took the essay.
He nodded once.
“Alright,” he said calmly, “I guess I’ll actually read it this time.”
