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For I its all about family my great friends and the Christmas parties.Christmas time is fun to enjoy the company of my family.
For my friends as well, we try to stay with our family as much as we can until we can't take it anymore.
During the season of the Holidays, its all about the food like the: candy, tamales, doughnuts, cookies, cake, rice, beans and gifts that we all receive.
Fun, but I doubt I can write a one page essay about it. Every other weekend I stay at my father’s apartment, sleep over Saturday night. Sasha, my stepsister, is allowed to eat or drink wherever the hell she wants. Holding me tightly by the back of the neck, he shoves me through the kitchen.
And every other Sunday morning, my stepmother storms into the kitchen wearing a scowl and a nightgown the size of a tent. A thin, noxious cloud of Lynette’s cigarette smoke hangs and swirls around my head as I move to the edge of the living room. She’s eleven years old and is, in every way, the bitch’s spawn. Leaning down near me, she pats her cigarette out in the end-table ashtray. I don’t know how it is at your mother’s house, but at house things are kept clean.” I gesture toward Sasha’s empty Twinkie wrappers on the floor. You may want to inform your daughter of that.” My stepmother’s eyes narrow. I’m almost hoping she does something, because I’ve decided to fight back. I catch a self-satisfied smile on my stepmother’s face from the corner of my eye, but I can’t turn my head.
All my friends seem to call early on Christmas Day; they are only calling to see if I'm going to ...
I had a great time at Christmas – for a change, I might add.The crunch of tires rolling on gravel serves as my early warning system that Dad is home. Picking my pen up from the floor, I sit at the table. The order came from my father, with Lynette hovering like the grim shadow of death in the background. I see the leather, brown and worn, clear as a snapshot, and then it strikes my back with a loud slap. I try to cover up but quickly my father whips me again. If I wasn’t so scared, I’d consider kicking him again.From experience, I know that I won’t hear the crunch for a few more hours, when Dad is good and drunk. I didn’t say anything, just shrugged, but it really pissed me off. I listen to Sasha play for a few minutes, then drop the pen onto my notebook. Her daughter’s scream brings my stepmother out of the bedroom. I stare at the TV but my senses are focused behind me. Instead, I grab my duffel bag and hurry from the room.With a decade’s worth of hatred burning in my eyes, I watch my formidable stepmother disappear into the living room.Gently tapping my pen against my front teeth, I glance down at my essay. The best part of vacation was sitting home alone two nights ago, New Years Eve, stuffing myself with Oreo cookies and milk and watching Dick Clark usher in 1981. I’d like to hear that come out of Bruce Jenner’s mouth. Her voice is like a creaky door swinging in the wind. It’s been driven into my head every other weekend for the past ten years, since I was four. Not a bad rule, fair, except this rule pertains only to myself. Without a word, he grabs me by the arm, lifts me from the couch.The night is quiet; for much of the walk the only sound is my own steady breathing.I enter the warm, dimly lit house to find my mother sitting alone, reading a book.My stepsister glances at me before I go and I shoot her the finger.I walk home, two miles, in the cold, winter darkness.Then when the house is clean, that's when my family starts to come over.The time I share with my family is the time we talk about old stories that have happened to our lives throughout the year.