I Somewhat Brought It On Me Essay

When the narrator was a young child, their mother was seen as “a beautiful lady.” The narrator’s mother would always stay up late and sit in the dark. She taught him a poem “that night I stumbled into the kitchen maybe because I’ve always been a night person or perhaps I had wet the bed.” They lived in an apartment and there

I wasn't too worried about the college roommate situation because I could not wait to move out of my house. Every large family's household is chaotic. Even though my siblings and I are all

I haven’t been able to sleep for the past month. I hear my door creak and I look at the door. I see someone open the door very slowly before coming in. I look to see Maria tiptoeing into my room. “What are you doing?” I ask “You know your mom would kill me if she saw us.”

Enchanted by her serene radiance, I did not disturb her. Suddenly she began to speak in a whispered hum that was more like a song, unique in a dwelling full of ranting outbursts. She spoke of years long past, swimming in the pond with her sister and dancing in the moonlight. I could picture all in my head, like I was watching a movie. Then she began repeating the story she had just told me, and I realized that she was merely talking to herself. Although this discovery disenchanted me at first, I soon realized that, although the woman was talking to herself, she still had so many fantastic stories stored in her mind. The residents of the home all had some life flittering in them and numerous stories to share; they just need someone to listen to them. After my experience at the home I knew that one of my goals in life would always be o help make sure that people were receiving proper treatment, and not merely stuffed away and drugged up.

Writing has many tools and devices that can be used to influence the purpose and meaning of the a piece of work. In the two pieces of work, "Private License Plate Scanners Amassing Vast Databases Open to Highest Bidders-which is written in a way that it is anti-license plate tracking- and "Who Has the Right to Track You?'-which is written to be for license plate tracking- many different tools and devices are used by the authors. These pieces of work describe the benefits and drawbacks of collecting data and tracking fellow citizens, but use different forms of pathos, ethos, and logos to portray what they are trying to say. Also, both articles state how many are opposed to this tracking, arguing that it is against the First Amendment,

Many rooms were unusable and full of garbage and piles of stuff. The kitchen and dining area entrance was obstructed due to the clutter. Fortunately, the kitchen had a second entrance. However, many of the kitchen appliances, including the stove, were covered with garbage and used carryout containers.

A morbid melancholy stole over me. Anxiety gnawed at my heart. I was a living corpse. There was a feeling of chill in the air every day as I felt. I faked illness so as not to go to school. Despair hangs heavy in the stifling air. It was a dreary day for me , cold and without sunshine. I dread people and always avoid people. The door was locked from the inside. A cold grey light crept under the curtains. The windows were secured with locks and bars. The room felt cold and sterile.The flowers faded for want of water. A single lamp was suspended from the ceiling. The clock ticked louder and louder in a quiet room. I regarded the room as a refuge from the outside

We find an alley and some cardboard boxes to sleep on. My stomach grumbles at the top of its lungs. My mother lying beside me, wide awake. She looks so pale and thin; she reminds me of a ghost. I shut my eyes.

My old bedroom was a place of warmth- most of the time. She was my place of refuge. I would run and jump into her arms when the world did me wrong. We made crafts and shifted through old memories together. Yet, she acted differently when others were around. She took off her frames to reveal a new layer. Her guest were bitter and harsh. They had a fuse shorter than kindergartner’s crayons. I wanted to excused her guest, but it wasn’t my place. I wanted to leave, but she didn’t permit me. I had to let the guest do her critic, then she would leave us

We were walking for a few hours. My feet throbbed and my ears were ringing from Taylor’s whining. Finally I could see it, the old abandoned house I discovered one day while riding my bike. The door was barely hanging onto its hinges, and there were several windows missing or broken. I pried open the splintering oak door. In the house there was two rooms. One, the one you first enter, was most likely a kitchen and living room. There was a sofa with faded fabric and springs popping out everywhere. An old furnace sat in the corner with rotting charcoal inside. The door of the furnace was missing rendering the whole thing useless. The other room was much smaller. It was a bedroom. There was a twin sized bed. The frame was rusty and missing a leg. I pulled the mattress off of it, so we could sleep on it. There were springs and stuffing sticking out of the mattress. It wasn’t too dirty to sleep on because I pulled off the moldy sheets. We laid down on the mattress. Taylor started snoring within minutes. I was worried about Mom. She had had a seizure before. It was because of her failing liver. Last time, social services took me and my sisters to a girl’s home. They served cooked vegetables that smelled like rotten seafood and chicken noodle soup with frozen chicken. After Mom got out of the hospital she got custody of us, but the judge told her if it happened again she wouldn’t get us back. My older sister, Becca, was eighteen so she didn’t have to

During the night, John was sleeping and unexpectedly he heard a noise coming from the living room, he woke up and after going to the hallway, noticed that his mother was there, drugged again.

Besides the littered bottles, there were adult magazines left open at one end of the couch. The living room was a mess, and

furniture and beds and curtains on the windows and good meals cooked every day in the

“Each of us inevitable Each of us limitless – each of us with his or her right upon the earth, Each of us allowed the eternal purports of the earth, Each of us here as divinely as any is here” (Whitman 27). From out of the jazz soaked streets of New York City, arose a group of young poets and writers overwrought with the opportunity of their lives, and endeavored to capture its girth through the honesty and vulnerability of their words. These young bohemians would later lead the Beat Movement, which inspired young Americans throughout the county in their search for something more than the consumerism and conformity that plagued their society. Jack Kerouac’s On the Road is a transcendent work that

were boats , cars, and pieces of houses everywhere. Some of our neighbors' houses were