Diary of a Ketchup Hater

I was brought up in suburbia. Conditioned to function within the confines of a cookie cutter community where the lawns are green and the houses are beige and no one passes out in the shrubbery on their way home from the bar. A Leave it to Beaver world where modern June Cleavers drive minivans full of kids to soccer practice, and instead of vaccuming in pearls, they pay the illegal mexican woman $3.50 an hour to do it in sweatpants.
Everyone who lives in suburbia thinks that this is normal, and so trips to the city are frightening and few.
So you grow up in this closed community and learn to function the way your parents do. You go to High School. You go to college.
In college everything is different. Goodbye suburbia. Goodbye soccer moms in cardigan sweaters from Eddie Bauer. So long dads on riding lawn mowers, manicuring their identical front lawns. The pleasantville community becomes a teenage world, without authority or boundary. Without fear. A raw, independant feeling and the rush of holding your first beer, your first cigarette, your first joint. You are finally living your life.


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