Suburbia at it's best.

Has anyone ever noticed the smell around here? The sweet smell of septic systems of every neighbor for miles around. Maybe I'm crazy, but everyone else seems to ignor it. It's like everyone pretends that it's not there because that would mean that their home isn't perfect. It would mean that there is something distasteful about it. Everyone wants to be the same. Every house has its unique cookie cutter design. Made to look the same as the Johnson's but prove that theirs has more value. When I drive into town, I roll past rows and rows of plastic lawn ornaments and houses that look exactly like the one next to them, suburbia at its best. It's all a facade we put on, though. Nothing is ever as it seems. You may drive past an ordinary house, then later find out that an axe murderer lived there, or a drunken father beat his family within the confinement of those walls. But it is no different than the one next to it, right? It makes me realize that everything we put on to make us look better in front of the Johnsons, or anything we do to make ourselves seem better than what we really are, just makes us a bunch of dressed up trash cans. It's ridiculous really, how we do things that make us miserable just to impress people around us. It gives us a false sense of secruity. We think that for the time being, we are at the top of the totempole. We are safe behind our mask of face paint and plastic lawn ornaments. Maybe that's exactly what we want, to experience a little bit of insanity before we die. Maybe the thought of being able to escape this twisted place we call reality is what makes us put on all these performances. If we can't be better than anyone but ourselves, we might as well put on the paint and pretend to be God himself. Ignor all the smelly sewage fumes, the borringness of suburbia, and the fakeness of teenie bopper trageties, and make believe that we are no more ourselves than that trash can sitting at the end of our pea-gravel driveways.