I Believe…My Mom Is My Best Friend Demi - Sussex‚ New Jersey Entered on February 14‚ 2011 Age Group: Under 18 Themes: family Share This Essay: I believe my mom is my best friend. In my short fifteen years I have come to realize that friends come and go‚ but my family will forever be by my side. The one person that has always stayed by my side through thick and thin is my mom. No matter what I do or what happens in my life my mom will always love me just the same as before. I know I can always
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The Incident at Roswell There are many weird things that occur on planet earth that cannot be explained or are hard to explain. One of these occurrences is the incident at Roswell. When strange debris was found near Roswell‚ New Mexico‚ people started believing it was from an extraterrestrial space craft. There are many questions left unanswered and many theories of what really happened started developing. Theories that stated that the debris was just from a weather balloon‚ or was part of a project
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Childhood memories Thinking about my childhood‚ makes me feel like I want to go back and to watch me while I was doing unexpected crazy actions‚ it was the funniest days ever. My childhood‚ sometimes it makes me laugh other times I really cry. Remembering some crazy actions that I’ve done ‚ like jumping in the deepest part of the swimming pool while I didn’t know how to swim yet‚ they rescued me but‚ I wasn’t scared‚ that really makes me laugh when I remember such an action. One time
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Essay (Incident at Vichy) Mistreatment‚ racism‚ discrimination‚ these are some of the actions brought on by misperception of a certain group of people. Due to being blinded by lies‚ propaganda and false accusation‚ people easily succumb the manipulation of the upper class. The play “Incident at Vichy”‚ by Arthur Millar‚ illuminates the subject of racism‚ discrimination‚ dehumanization‚ knowledge‚ hatred‚ deception and sacrifice through the use of Marxism theory by presenting how the upper class
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quick to get the hang of just about anything‚ but another thing I realized that I wish I did not have was also that I was very lazy at a beginning. However‚ when I really set my mind to something‚ or find interest in anything‚ I am capable of making wonders with it and taking things to another level. Most of my childhood and my elementary school took place in Mexico just across the border of Texas‚ and when I came here I believed that it was going to be very hard to learn and get accustomed to the
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With all the hours I poured into my last essay‚ it felt like a slap in the face that they didn’t even send a “thank you for trying” letter. I spent the announcement day sitting on my in-law’s porch sipping coffee with Baileys and stewing over yet another essay contest loss. Lacking in ideas of where I went wrong‚ I tried imitating old photos of authors again for inspiration. Leaning on the arm of the wicker chair with my chin resting on curled fingers; I held my pen like a cigarette‚ hoping to channel
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The Childhood of Two Generations: My childhood vs. My parents’ All I know about my parents’ childhood came from the story that my grandparents told me‚ and some old pictures that my parents showed me. Even if they have seen the pictures‚ the memories of their childhood still fade from their minds. I felt that they do not want to reminisce about that period of time. When I look back to my boyhood and compare it with my parents’‚ I realize that my generation enjoys huge benefits from a stable political
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point in our lives‚ celebrating the engagement of my older cousin. I quickly took upon the role of the event photographer‚ after having been praised for my supposed artistic skill. Then‚ it dawned on me - none of my extended family had seen any of my artworks for at least the past 7 years. The last any of them had seen was likely the deformed stick-figure style I had embraced in my childhood. I had moved on long ago‚ creative writing becoming my preferred past-time‚ leaving behind for them an entirely
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sexually‚ or any type of background. My parents’ identities are incomprehensible to me‚ because I do not experience life the same way they did‚ and I did not grow up in the same situations in which they did. My cultural identity is inherited from my parents in a way that does not particularly connect with them--that is‚ it is inherited from their sense of self identity and capability to recognize who they are as people. While my my mom may associate herself as one way‚ my dad may associate himself as another
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"My shoes! These were my favorite pair‚" he groans. Then as if realizing where the puke just came from he looks at me. "Shit‚ this means you have a concussion or something‚ right?" The whole time I am just trying to hide my mortification; I just puked all over my sister’s idol. On what apparently is his favorite pair of shoes. "Um‚ we should go find Karla‚ can you walk?" he asks. I have no idea who Karla is. I’m hoping‚ Karla is the manager who spoke with me earlier and not one of the nurses
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