Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,
Little boxes, little boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.
suburbia drains me. my motivation, inspiration, aspiration are sucked away by road rage of women too small to see over their dashboards, by the saturday morning ritual of lawn maintenance, by the overconcentration of ugg boots. this was a place i liked in elementary, middle, and even high school. it is chock-full of memories like when we choreographed dances to the spice girl’s singles, or played manhunt just to get first kisses, or threw parties even when we knew our parents would be home in three hours. if you drive through it you will probably say that it looks very nice because the houses are pretty and there are parks and kids playing; you will comment on its proximity to the beach and the train to the city, and what am i complaining about you would love to live here. and i would respond: yes, i know i sound snobby, but would you want to live here in your twenties? so i am suffocating in a community that i don’t belong- where there is a major age gap between eighteen and thirty-two that just don’t live here, and i guess we are all trying to see where we fit into a place where we don’t want a permanent position.
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