Vibes and Stuff.

I live on Melancholy Drive.

The grass is navy blue, the street is a crooked cul-de-sac, the car’s parked in a pothole with a meter, my tree is plastic, the sky is overcast in the morning and noisy at night, the dog plays poker for keeps, the cats take all yet give none, my house is halfway, my door screeches like a hawk when you open it, the tile is tacked on, the lights are buffered-yellow incandescent, and the paint on the walls is chip-chip-chipping away. I wear clothes that are picked out for me, and she wears what I can’t stand. Our daughter is milquetoast, and our son is straight mediocre. The food is lukewarm yet fortified by vending machines. The usual ringers are telemarketers, and the TV show is imported. Her love has become platonic, and mine buried under malaise.  I play the music that they seem to enjoy, yet I find meh. The greenbacks are spent on what we see, and the debt is made on what we saw. My degree was what they nagged for and paid for, yet I did the work. The boss is bossy for business, but fails to boost our bonus, the collective typing of my sycophant coworkers is unbearable, and they use the coolers to gossip about the latest scandals. I vote for the guy with the nicer picture, and come to regret it in the end. It’s odd how my taxes support the invasion of others for my supposed freedom, which didn’t seem lower than it already was. I hate politics, yet still vote for the guy with the nicer picture. I cry in the shower, medicate myself to sleep, and find it easier to just roll up the window when they beg instead of parting with the dirty change in the cup holder.

I’m living the American Dream.