the loss of innocence ... suburbia: gentrification and white flight eradicate idealism

"A man ain't no kinda man unless he's got some land."

What a shame, really. When I think about it — in reality, I'm already imagining my life in exile, in seclusion, in suburbia. Just like my parents. Just like their parents before them.

I'm like a prisoner in my own city. I can't afford to stay and I don't want to leave. I walk the streets, feel the vibes, pound the pavement. What will I do next?

Where's the coffee shop in suburbia?

If you say Starbucks, I swear to God, I'm going to smite you.

I know I should focus on the positives. I own a house. My own land. My own fence. My own backyard. My own bathroom. Three of them. I've got a 2-car garage.

But yet, that feels like blatant materialism.

And, of course, I'm excited to not have to hear my neighbors coughing, laughing, sneezing, humping. I'm excited about not having to worry about my car getting keyed, boosted, humped.

And if you say white flight, I swear to God, I'll steal your car.

I'm just not certain where my sense of place will come from. I can't go to another coffee shop like the one across the street. I can't find the pizza shop in the burbs.

Suburbs, as is inherent in their nature, all look the same. Much like 13-year-old girls. They follow the same patterns. Trends. Pizza Huts. McDonalds. Wal-Marts. Green shutters. Butterfly necklaces.

What a shame, really.