I can feel the suburbs rubbing off on me, and I’m not sure what to think about it.
Having to drive everywhere, seeing a Starbucks and Walgreens on every corner, getting stuck in traffic behind the soccer mom in the van that is plastered with stick-figure stickers of her husband, son, daughter, cat and dog. Everything is clean, sterile even. There is no character, no art, no buzz.
To compensate, I wear inappropriately wild outfits to the grocery store. I run down the streets lined with cookie-cutter homes blasting my music as loud as I can stand it, hoping to give the neighborhood some juice as my feet pound the pavement. I park in the spot farthest from the grocery store entrance, just to walk a little.
I won’t be washed out. I won’t turn beige. I will always be geometric prints and day-glo colors. Loud music and politically incorrect quips.
I can’t wait to move to the city.