College application

To whom it may concern,

My return address is on the reverse side of this letter; just mail my acceptance letter and rooming plan there. I know exactly what you’re thinking. Cocky? Overconfident? Presumptuous? False. My name is Zachary French and I am undoubtedly the best student your university could ever have the privilege of housing. Once again, I know what you’re thinking, “Why is this kid any better than the next?” Well, first of all, you should be able to tell that I can read minds. Second of all, the word perfection was derived from my middle name, Perfecticus.

Chuck Norris bows down to me; his ability to slam a revolving door shut is nothing in comparison to what I have achieved. I created Mount Everest by piling dirt on itself with a plastic shovel and was the first person to climb it. I plugged a ‘clapper’ into the sun and can make it night time by simply clapping my hands twice. I challenged Muhammad Ali to a fight and won because he fled at the thought of climbing into the ring with me. The boogie man is afraid of me, and so is North Korea.

When I stub my toe, I hurt the wall.  When I go to sleep the world falls silent so they do not awaken me.  When I act in theatres, good things happen when I say ‘Macbeth’. As amazing as I may be, I must confess I cannot defy the laws of physics… I can just change them, and even ask Stephen Hawking, it all makes sense.

I can do absolutely anything, and as you can tell from my completely honest examples I am the perfect student for your university. Now for my conclusion, I will leave you with a simple question. Shall I start packing tonight or tomorrow?

-Zachary French

              

Adding Details

43 hours. It has been 43 hours since I last slept. Exhaustion is seeping in, I can feel it overwhelming my body, yet I’m unable to sleep. Slumped over in a chair with my immediate family surrounding me in silence, we sit in plastic folding chairs waiting for an update. My little brother’s condition is completely unknown to us, yet the only thing that separates us from him is this thin wall covered in peeling wallpaper with a faded purple flower design on it and two large doors which have been freshly painted a crisp, bright red. Thoughts race through my mind as fast as they can in my sleep deprived state, and I continue to gaze around the bland room. I notice the secretaries in the office situated snugly in the corner of the room seem to be laughing and gossiping. Two middle aged ladies exchange banter and then both squeal in a seemingly endless cycle. I can’t believe it. People are sitting a mere 10 feet away from them and they’re laughing and chatting like two teenagers after school. Despite feeling agitated by the nurses and the severity of the situation, I start to doze off, my head dropping down onto my chest. Eyelids drooping, I see the dirty black runners I strapped on before rushing to the hospital and the black and white chessboard pattern of the floors. I hear the squeaking of door hinges desperately in need of lubrication and I see a doctor in full scrubs emerge. He peels off his surgical mask from left to right, revealing a hardened face. His face was covered in brown stubble which matched his short, dark brown hair. His small eyes revealed little to nothing, he showed neither happiness nor sympathy. Without seeing a sign of immediate success, my eyes dart over to my mother who covers her mouth and nose with her hands, eyes welling up instantaneously. The agonizing silence was broken by the doctor who said in a completely monotone voice, “French family?”