After a long day’s work and psychotic-break-inducing traffic, you finally reach your neighborhood. As you drive into the winding cul-de-sac, you slow down, both to not hit the kids playing near and on the streets and to give yourself a moment to calm your nerves. A little breathing room to wind down, let work, upper management, finance, and other things melt away into a blur. You are here. You are home, your little corner of the world, the king of your castle. Your beautiful young wife is waiting at home, no doubt baking your meatloaf and potatoes just the way you like it.
You roll down the windows to take in the sound and smell of a gentrified suburban life. The whiff of pine trees tickles your nose, and the sound of children laughing and yelling grows louder. You watch Mrs. Smith taking Old Jenny on a stroll. The Jones are preparing a barbecue. You wave at Bobby doing a power walk in his gay-ass fanny pack, and you avoid Harper and Willow dancing seductively for the camera.
Finally, you reach your white picket fence. Nobody else in the neighborhood has fences, but your wife insisted on them,