the long winding road I lift my head to find my front door. I turned the knob and stood at the threshold; to my utter bewilderment I found my dad sitting there, seeming as if he were waiting for me. Oh no, not today too! Why today! Come on, Dad, give me a break... It never came, though how badly I wanted it that day, my break never came.
             I turned around and looked at the kids already forming a circle outside, the sun striking its glorious rays on their pin sized bodies. Some one in the circle waved for me to come over. I gave him a reluctant shake of my head and walked into the dark confinements of my house. My head was crying out for a break, my shoulders were dead from the heavy load of books, and my legs collapsed at the sight of a chair.
             It was one of those "Hand Writing 101" days with Dad. I've only done two in the past, and so far I haven't liked them. The first one was horrible; it consisted of only scrutinizing remarks made by my father. The second one was even twice as bad as the first. It basically existed to tell me that I have the worst handwriting Dad has ever seen. Countless times he's told me that if my hands were not to receive the message to change my writing habits, then the message would be sent through the ruler.
             It is a cruel and ironic punishment parents or teachers would inflict among children for misbehaving in certain ways. Certain criteria were needed for this punishment. Some included stealing, usin
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