<p>My friend asked me to read his rough rough draft of his essay. It's really personal, so yeah. Comments would be greatly appreciated for him. (I think this is better because people he doesn't know get to read it). Thanks. The end seems cliched a little bit, so can you guys help fix it for him? </p>
<pre><code>What the ***** is wrong with you? Just shut the ***** up! Where is the money? Leave or else Ill call the *****ing police! I suddenly wake up in my bed hearing the screams of both of my parents. To a typical person, these sounds may perturb them, especially when it is only five in the morning. I guess, to my chagrin and through my own experiences, they are not. Ever since I could remember, this has been a habitual occurrence in my familyscreams, tears, sorrow, and the occasional curse that taints the fragile silence of dawn (too cliché). One may conclude that I have no family, only a hodgepodge of people with different beliefs, morals, and personalities living under one roof. To a certain extent this is true; indeed, I do not have a family.
Under the middle-class façade of moderate wealth, pleasure, and happiness lie several broken spirits nominally united under the family name. My father, who is rarely home during the day and even at night, occasionally comes in to greet us and gives us our lunch money. He generally comes home at one in the morning with a pallid, reddish face, a byproduct of his social drinking. Likewise my mother, a middle age Asian woman with ample knowledge, spends her time in a food court inside a local mall, trying to convince shoppers to buy some Thai fast food. She works from seven in the morning until ten at night, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year. My grandma is an aging woman from a period of Korean-Japanese segregation and prejudice. Her sight, her hearing and her consciousness slowly ebb away from this world, making her into a feeble woman unfit to take care of even herself. That leaves me with my brother, the closest person I have to a family. He is another lost soul in the midst of trauma--a stout, short boy with a brownish tan and crooked glasses. Even though I try to guide him through school and life, he rarely stays at home and frequently plays with his friends in their houses. I cant blame him.
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<p>Living in La Canada, an upper middle-class neighborhood Los Angeles County, it is quaint to believe that a family does not have enough food to eat or enough money to pay the bills on time. But here we are. After fourteen years living in this country, my parents have finally separated. (I guess its unorthodox for Asians to divorce). My father now lives in his office, continuously working on various engineering projects to support my brother and me. He drives home from work every morning to greet us and give us rides to school. Albert--son, go away from here as far away as you can, he told me once in the car, come back to visit when I have died.<br>
To a certain extent, I do wish to move as far away as I possibly can. I want to escape the fetters of the social façade and my familys struggle for livelihood. (add more). Even though my family is broken and detached, it is still something I can claim for myself. It is my family.</p>