Pretty Please Critique My Essay?

Question by : Pretty please critique my essay?
As I watched him ride off on his bicycle, I knew what he had done. He had entered the house unnoticed (despite his always irrevocably loud presence) and prepared himself a monstrous rum and Coke before my mom could even acknowledge his presence. He is the epitome of a half-*** modern day bandit. Riding around on his little bike, he raids any person’s house with whom he has the slightest connection for cigarettes, alcohol, food, and God knows whatever else he sees fit. Cory’s bike is his best friend. Tangible and convenient, Cory’s bike assists him in purposely riding in front of cars to be hit and receive compensation. Yeah, he’s that guy. He is the kind of person who was born equipped with the perfect mixture of brains, wit, and charisma, qualities most successful people acquire. Unfortunately, success was not in the cards for Cory Anderson. That is, unless operating an almost imaginary “t-shirt and surf sticker shop” out of his bedroom at the age of 36 is the result of a most prosperous career. Cory has been in my life since I was three years old. After 16 years, a part of Cory has remained unchanged; he is still a hypnotic, boisterous, and sometimes delusional individual, despite the presence of a rabid addiction. However, he has taught me, inadvertently, the time to be credulous and the time to refrain myself from submitting to the halo effect. Growing up with “uncle” Cory was nothing short of entertaining. His genuine love of life was never absent, even in the most unpleasant of situations. His long, blonde hair appeared bleached to the maximum from daily surfing trips to St. Augustine Beach and broad shoulders contributed to his robust, 6’2” stature. My brother and I were always excited to play with him and my whole family took gratification in having him around. His endearing smile was relentless in catching my aunt’s attention time after time, despite his ongoing ability to piss her off. I suppose every relationship covets its ups and downs, but really— running around behind her back with inferior, third rate women? That was just Cory. He enters a room like a tornado, muttering loudly to himself and rushing around with a hump of a book bag on his back, like an accelerated turtle. Although, when he wants something (a large rum and Coke, perhaps?), his maneuvers are silent. Cory has more to him than close-range bicycling and minuscule thievery; he’s a hell of an artist. He can draw anything and portray it with a cool, inimitable style. He had always pondered the idea of becoming a tattoo artist but never followed it through or got any tattoos. If the self-inflicted brand on the top of Cory’s left hand doesn’t say something about him, I don’t know what will. In the years following the birth of his son, a sudden change in Cory had become apparent. A change pertaining especially to the eyes. They were no longer intriguing and lively. It was as if Cory and his personality were separate at times; it was still there, just less profound. This man was already born a little wacky (albeit, in a good way) and his newly found keenness towards drugs just pushed him straight off his rocker. His whereabouts gradually became unknown and when he did pop up, he was like a vulture, scavenging only for things that proved vital to him. My family offered help numerous times, offering to pay for a detox center and for rehab. After many failed attempts, it became obvious that the decision of when and how to get clean would be left solely to Cory. As the years followed and Cory’s addiction elevated to a dangerous point, he landed himself in jail. When he called my mother with news of his arrest, she rushed to the bank and withdrew bail money to the tune of $ 1,500. Dismissing her generosity, he chastised her laziness for sending me to pick him up instead of her. From then on, every time he would stop by our house his interests were solely in gaining something upon each visit. Whether it was a ride, a drink, or some petty cash, Cory was out only for himself. As I watched the steady transformation of a bright, capable man changing into a haughty drug dependent man-child, I could feel only compassion for his son on the day the realization of his father’s character would strike his conscious mind. Despite Cory’s newfound negligence, I do believe he was born with a moral compass. He has (I kid you not) demonstrated the capability to step outside himself and do what is right in significant ways. I like to remember the old Cory; a simple guy with a great mind and magnetic personality. I believe that at an early age he learned that his charisma could bring him instant gratification, without the accompanying responsibility. As special a person I know Cory is, it’s a shame that his life has turned out the way that it has for his child and for himself.

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