The 19th of May 2014 – Levittown, New York

(found in a pile of grass clippings, near the brush)


They call me troubled, Rosy. I mean, They keep calling me troubled!

I’m the troubled one. I’m the crazy one, the nutjob, the risk to self and others.

But them? They’re all fine. Them? They’re all perfect.

The family across the street from me, Rosy, you should see them. You really should come visit me, and just sit in my front room and stare out the window at the family across the street from me.

They spend every weekend in the exact same way.

The son comes out first, and he walks in a series of concentric circles while pushing a lawnmower. Chunks of grass go flying around and around, and the boy just pushes a lawnmower. Every single weekend.

Then the mother comes out. She drags a plastic bucket behind her, and she goes from flowerbed to flowerbed, dragging that bucket and dragging that bucket. She hunches over and sweeps through the mulch around the plants with her fingers, plucking out little green weeds and tossing them in the bucket. She drags the bucket. She fills the bucket. Then she drags it. Every single weekend.

And then there’s the father, the husband. He spends an entire Saturday washing his Camaro, waxing his Camaro, squeegeeing his Camaro and shining his Camaro. Every Saturday, all Saturday. Then, when the whole thing is spitshined and spotless, he tosses a tarpaulin cover over it and walks back to the house. The car has never left the driveway. The car has never had its engine started. The car is a sparkling marvel, and he cleans it. Every single weekend.

Worst of all, they don’t seem to realize that there are other things to do. They seem to enjoy it, and they don’t seem to realize that they can actually choose not to, that they can reject this sham of a reality and construct something more pleasant and interesting.

It’s a farce! It has to be a complete and total farce. It’d even be pretty funny if they didn’t insist on taking everything so horrendously seriously.

There just has to be more. But that makes me the troubled one, right?

This isn’t life. This is an insult to life. This is maintenance. This is taxiing on the runway or performing a series of U-turns on the highway because the driver never fails to miss the proper exit.

And they say I’m troubled.



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