Razor
Zach
A. Thompson 711
My name is like a razor. The sharp point is my Z. If you say the letter Z for long enough, your
tongue starts to hurt, like a blade slicing through meat. I have a hot temper, growing angry when my
brother annoys me, making stupid noises with his spit. He stares at me, in the backseat of the car,
with fat puffy cheeks and a look in his eyes that shows he knows he’s bothering
me and he doesn’t care. I yell at him to
stop, and stare at him with my evil glare, my eyes judging his every move. My Z is my fiery temper, a sharp slicing
razor.
The rest of my name is more like the handle of the razor, rather
than the blade, not as sharp in your hand.
I’m not always mad. When there’s
nothing to be angry about, I am easy to be around. When people spell my name with a K, I’ll send
that K back because I don’t want it. “CH” is better, rounder and softer,
because I already have my sharp Z.
When I was little, my dad used to play a game with me called
“Zach of potatoes,” where he would pick me up at the base of the stairs leading
to our apartment, toss me behind his back like a sack—or Zach—of potatoes,
carry me up the stairs and then toss me onto the living room sofa. I would be giggling the whole time, upside
down with my legs dangling above me, and when it was over I would ask my dad to
do it again. “Pleeeeease, just one more
time? Pleeeeeeeease?” I still like that kind of roughness, being
tossed around and shaken. I love
roller-coasters, especially wooden ones like the Cyclone at Coney Island, where
there is extra shaking. I also never get
dizzy. Roller-coasters and other thrill
rides are my “Zach” of potatoes.
Like a roller coaster, I have big ups and big downs. I feel things strongly. I get very mad at times, like when people
annoy me, but I also get very excited on thrill rides. My name is like a razor, sharp on one end but
soft on the other.
