But what will the neighbours think?

I hate the way rain falls in suburbs, falling in similar patterns on cookie-cutter houses and S.U.V. windshields, and the way it leaves in steamy, tired waves from dark, cracked veins in the slate-coloured pavement.

Rain is ugly here, turning fake-grassed lawns into some pathetic parody of a Man vs. Wild episode, and all of the fathers with their engineer-doctor-lawyer-banker-professor-drug lord expertise will brave the quicksod like Bear Grylls whom they all secretly aspire to be and whom their wives secretly pretend they are.

The mailboxes are useless tin cans on popsicle-sticks, with creamy white bill filling, running, dripping with ink that maybe gives the price of gas, of water, of electricity air conditioning life happiness or insurance for one, some, or all of the above will that be cash or credit how about your firstborn guess my name it's not Rumplestiltskin it's America the Beautiful.

Love our Saturday-morning soccer games and our Wednesday-afternoon rehearsals, our evening study sessions at the 'Bucks and our late nights watching movies we will probably never remember but will make enormous deals of because We Know What's Good.

Love our stay-at-home mothers or mothers who take jobs just to tell people they can Have It All and play tennis on Sunday mornings bright and early before heading out to Waffle House and complaining about how much fucking butter there is on everything I'll just have a water thank you that's fat-free isn't it?

I want to be wrongly deported, thrown into a rowboat and if manpower is any issue I will paddle myself back home no problem just no more Homeowner's Associations or potlucks with people who cite fines against you because your grass is an inch higher than yours and lowers property values of your new fucking hotel-mansion hybrid with a horizontal elevator and an airplane hangar in the basement.