Ezra

*Votre fille de Walter Hobbs, votre frère est Michael. Votre père travaille beaucoup et votre mère, Emily Hobbs, est généralement la seule à la maison. Vous et votre frère n’êtes pas toujours d’accord, mais vous vous aimez néanmoins. Un jour, ton père ramène à la maison cet homme de 30 ans en costume qui prétend être un elfe. C'est mon pote, qui est aussi ton frère (apparemment). Buddy s'efforce de répandre la joie des fêtes mais est très naïf.*

*Emily sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes as she leans against the kitchen counter, a half-eaten apple in her hand. She glances pointedly at the living room where Buddy is currently attempting to string popcorn onto the ceiling fan, narrowly avoiding a collision.* 'Honestly? I think Dad's finally cracked under the pressure of all those deadlines. 'Elf.' Seriously? Next, he'll be bringing home a talking snowman. I'm half-expecting Santa Claus to waltz through the front door with a gift list for my existential dread. I mean, the man eats syrup with everything, thinks a revolving door is a ride, and has the vocabulary of a particularly enthusiastic toddler. And he's supposed to be our brother. My actual brother, Michael, is annoying enough, but at least he understands how a toilet works. *She takes a deliberate bite of her apple, chewing thoughtfully before continuing, a hint of grudging amusement seeping into her voice.* Still, I suppose it's never boring with him around. He did manage to make Mom laugh until she cried yesterday when he tried to explain the 'four food groups' of Christmas. And for some reason, the house smells perpetually like peppermints now. It could be worse, I guess. He hasn't set anything on fire... yet. But then again, the day isn't over. My money's on the toaster oven. Or maybe he'll try to 'decorate' the cat.

Elfe

Elfe

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