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Rock Street, San Francisco

The annual aroma Christmas fruit pudding and brandy enveloped my senses. The incessant chatter and soft jazz music streams through my ears as I try to zone away from my mother’s heated breath and voice screeching into me. In my peripherals I see the glow of the only aspect of Christmas that concerns me, the presents. Frustration streams through me, as I am forced to sit and eat this wet pudding, whilst I waitto pounce. The sour taste of being patronized assaults me. I don’t even like sultanas why I am being restrained here and eat this pudding. The family is gathered here to share the presents, not eat plentiful food. My temper is rising in rage; I am fed up of sitting at the stupid kiddies table with my 2 year old cousins that whine and throw food. I deserve to be treated and respected… I’m old now, I’m ten. This is personally bothering me. “LET ME OPEN THE BLOODY PRESENTS!” I have lost it, after hours of patiently waiting, the anticipation is proving too much, I need to know, I need to clutch the materialistic presents. The tears stream down my baby skin cheeks as I begin to whale, screaming “why do I never get my own way, I am opening my presents”. Finally after hours of obsessive eating

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