Suburbanity: Rationalizing existence, All of my plants that died this winter, alright fuckofficer joint patron
newsprint, pencil, pen, plants, soil, photographs, string
“For me, suburbia has always meant isolation. What do we do with ourselves when there’s absolutely nothing to fucking do? Nicely paved sidewalks, vast green lawns, and streets that never go dark. I grew up in this environment and, for some reason, still haven’t escaped it after twenty-two years. I moved into my current house last August. It’s quiet, it’s removed. It’s suburban.
“As I’ve gotten to know the area I’ve become most interested in its similarities to my own upbringing. The nearby woods are a haven for disenchanted high-schoolers. They smoke weed, they fuck, they spraypaint their woes on the back wall of the adjacent library. While these kids act out more than I did at that age, I can still sympathize.
“Meanwhile, I’m sitting here in my room tending to dying plants. I feel like this is much of the same. The isolation I feel now is not as visceral as it was when I was sixteen, but it is more developed and more ingrained. Now I actually need to rationalize to myself why I’m still here. I guess I can’t leave it quite yet. What do we do with ourselves when there’s absolutely nothing to fucking do?”