Kimberle is flawed.

Some of my most cherished activities with my stereotypical second-and-a-half generation Asian-American parents include making taking note that there are actually sub-levels of inter-Asian racism in the diverse land of the Midwestern America, which I call the Middle West to compare it to the Middle East.
Anyways; My national backgrounds are exactly three-eighths Chinese, so somewhere in what was, at the time of my ancestors moving away, some part of China, and 5/8 Korean, and as a result of our physical appearance, our entire family has decided to play a practical joke on our entire neighborhood by pretending to belong to a sub-ethnicity known as the Hmong, who live in southeastern China and Asia and tend to be more traditional and have a more specific, darker-skinned culture and unique language and somewhat distinct culture, despite the fact that we live within driving or bus-riding distance to neighborhoods and school districts that have proud, legitimate Hmong communities doesn't actually stop us.
So here I am, at the local library with a bunch of other extra-yellow Asian teens, with myself wearing a lot of corn-ish pancake makeup, reading a thin magazine called Hmoob Teen.

Kimberle is a young woman carving out the tale of her existence in the blanch suburbs of Midwestern America She feels a bit too comfortable in her room, which is massively unpostered on its walls for a teenager her age. Kimberle had begun to forget what her voice had sounded like after this little while, and quietly read out her journal (her mandatory school journal for a so-called English class, not an actual girl's personal diary) This was demanding the question, describe your(the journal will ask a cliché journal question and she will give it an unorthodox, rude answer, writing about excitedly.
Kimberle swung, pivoted out her bedroom door frame to face the head-craning, water-hitting-ceramic; she wanted to wet down a tuft of hair that had been annoying her. So she stomped across an insensibly luxurious toffee shag carpet, for a hallway, of all places, as the two trapezoidal snow-white ridged vanilla cookies holding the mass of light brown cream shifted into a single bleached rye crisp cracker, drywall-white and pocked with dents, bumps, pencil marks and portraitry of life, the final straw to make the hallway wall and fuzzy carpet floor inedible.
As she entered the bathroom, she didn't resist quite a few looks at her face in the door-open bathroom. She was having a drenching vanity for her supposedly modest self. Dusty makeup and caked-on fingerprints barnacled to the surface of a generic alarm clock (most likely alarm clock/radio) utilizing the up-to seven straight digital LED lines for each number, sans the colon to separate the hour from the minute. There was probably an analog clock on another wall here(but digital clocks are easier), and, without the water running, it can be heard that there isn't any ticking. Maybe a battery ran out and was ignored. She kept on looking at herself.

She shook her head to break out of her trance. The bathroom, with its cluttered contents all over its sink countertop, was the room with its door closest to the end of the hallway (that led into the living room) When one takes a left from this of the hallway going out, it leads to the spacious kitchen that might be more suitable for a couple of grandparents with some extra money as opposed to a "middle-class" family of four. To the right was the even more spacious "living room". As her nose peeked the edge of the wall, her father sprung up from the armchair and stood up with his knees still bent somewhat, fists clenched and forearms held horizontally and outward in that eager-anticipation body-language position. His whole body was in a left side profile from Kimberle's view. Overall, he was happily staring at the television and pretending to be more intense and/or anxious than relaxed, since he must of felt guilty for relaxing and watching television without paying much attention maybe.
Her father, Sun-dian Chengdu, was watching an episode of the product-manufacturing show How It's Made, which kept its cool factor by using an unseen smooth-talking calm narrator instead of an ecstatic host like Al Roker or some guy named Ty or Craig or any white Food Network faggot.
How It's Made didn't usually dedicate a whole episode to one product; they fit at least two products, usually three or even four, per half-hour episode and kept the "fun-fact" chit chat to a minimum and focused on putting an easy listening soundtrack into the manufacturing footage. In this episode they were making violins, which caused Kimberle to feel a twinge of stereotypicality because she was of Asian ethnicity. If she were an anime character--
"Which I'm fuckinnot!" declared Kimberle, breaking the fourth wall, and/or the wall of third-person narration.
--she would have one of those big sweat drops. Ahem, now her mother, named Moona, was sitting at a couch, not a sofa, facing towards Kimberle's direction and pressed against the wall to Sun-dian's right. His armchair stood at a, by living room standards, vast expanse of at least 20 feet from the couch. Her mother was mashing buttons, as opposed to swiping a stylus pen, on a Nintendo DS handheld. So currently now they were in their own little worlds and not being very couple-like.