Hello Suburbia. I’m your unashamed lover.
I’m not going to rush you out of the bar I never go to when I realize one of my real friends is here and might see ME with YOU. Your not my secret lover. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I bask in the shamelessness of your consumerism. Your morbidly obese sheeple are a comfort. I want to fall between the folds of their butter and greasy back fat and be held gently as I’m rocked to the sleep of the blissfully ignorant herd.
I’m sitting here, staring out the front door of my three bedroom slice of American dream (read: “coma”), listening to some relaxing third wave ska and I’m wondering about my place in this life. The music takes me back to a time when the world was a party and tomorrow didn’t exist. Everything was about today. Feast or famine, I always seemed to be happy with the moment.
Intervening years weren’t quite so pleasant. You go through that period where you try to fit into someone else’s picture of the perfect world. It might be family, it might be a significant other’s, it may even be just what you think the rest of the world wants. Why shouldn’t you want it to? So you do a bunch of dumb shit, you go through the motions, you convince yourself you’re happy and you strap on your smile before you go out to fake it for another day.
At the end of the day, when the prying eyes and opinions of all those people that don’t really matter are shut out by your front door, when you are alone and still in the small hours of the night in your safe little twin size under two blankets and a duvet, then…then you lay awake and see yourself untainted by those other influences. This is when the wheels start to turn. You start to wonder why you aren’t happy. You’ve got all the accoutrements of a happy normal life. You have that picture perfect life. Only it’s painted by Norman Rockwell and you know what? I’m more of a fan of Mark Ryden and Banksy.
Then you make a decision: Do you keep compromising what you really want to do for yard sales and potlucks at work, or do you go off script and spray paint your own version of utopia on a freeway overpass?
So here I am, years down the road from the night I made that decision, writing, playing music, getting more tattoos, but still sitting down to watch How I Met Your Mother. Because that’s the great thing about life. It’s not an all or nothing situation. You get to make your own version of reality. Mine just happens to be a little on the artsy and unconventional style…but with a boner for the tragedy of the true American horror story: Suburbia.