Suburbia. How I hate thee. Your uniform houses. Your chain stores. Your sprawling limits. To the north I go and find Walmart, Target, and Starbucks. To the south they are there also. East and West, it doesn’t matter which way I go.
Suburbia, you are my Truman Show. You beckon me to accept that this is all I could want, or at least this is all there is. You offer me a cup of convenience from an unending pitcher of static materialism. Curse these eyes that never cease in seeing perfectly square buildings.
I don’t want to eat the same carrots, from the same store, from the same mega farm. I don’t want to buy a couch that thousands of others lounge upon. I don’t want to look just like every other middle-class mother of two on my street or in my town. Suburbia, I am an individual with creative and unique ideas. Despite what you tell me each day, I do not need to conform to your standard of living to be happy. You can take your mass-produced lifestyle and stick it in your over-used garbage system. I will not forget my roots, though your sidewalks strive to cover them.