Death by congeniality

So far, I've done a bad job of following my heart.


The childhood-me would be shocked and disappointed to see the present-me on the pathway to surburbia, the one place that Christina-the-child wanted to get the hell away from...and never return.

In my youth I remember detesting the clean sidewalks and ubiquitous mini-vans parked in front of two-and-a-half bedrooms and baths. I hated doting parents, I hated strip malls, and most of all, I hated how utterly anti-septic and predictable everything and everyone was. The stifling conformity of it all. The fresh black asphalt with perfectly painted straight yellow and white lines.

Suburbia, where imagination goes to die.

But isn't that what naturally happens when you have kids? You start thinking about raising them in a good school district, a low-crime, kiddie-safe environment...and before you know it: POOF! You have become your parents.

I already have a spouse and am halfway there to getting a boring-yet-secure job. Eventually the kids will come...and then I will be banished to Surburbia.

What is that I smell? I think it's the stench of death...and fresh asphalt.