Back in the darkest of dark ages. Like, that ugly time that one might very well call my adolescence, I got me a rock and roll fantasy. I wrote up a little ditty, my angry punk opus, my theme song.

Here’s to suburbia, superbia, suburbia. In the suburbs the grass is green, something something and the kids are clean. Something else and daddy’s split the scene.

Anyway, it was a piece of shit, angst ridden groove. Sad really. In its writing I had a whole lot of future planning. No fucking way would I fall into the complacent meaningless life. The sadness, the ennui, the bitter side of the American dream that I thought I was already cursed by merely living. In my weeping, be-pimpled self, I couldn’t become the life I hated every day. There had to be more.

What a difference a few decades and some toner and skin cream have made. Later this same life time, I had to listen to someone else’s dream to get moving on this current chapter of living (acne-free).

Suburbia, indeed.

What have I become?