Birthdays in THE CITY. Apparently if you live in A city, it becomes THE CITY, well at least to those who define themselves by where they live. Me, I'm more of the Country Mouse type. I grew up in a Smallvillian town that was on the outskirts of no less than five everyday average cities of varying sizes. I personally prefer lawns of green, forests alive with both flora and fauna, dales and dells a-plenty, and perhaps even a fiord or two. I feel stifled and trapped when I'm surrounded by concrete and steel, like being in Cell Block 7 without the guards, and all the inmates are roaming free.
There wasn't much to do in my lazy little whistle-stop. Well not much to do other than dance that is, and dance we did! But thanks to the the tireless efforts of an uptight crusading clergyman, the town council put a strict ban on dancing and rock and roll music. I just couldn't take it, I was either going to hit the ceiling or tear up the town. I just had to cut loose. So I moved to one of the surrounding cities. Just A city, mind you.
Although a bustling metropolitan arena, I'm in the good part, considered the 'burbs. Its all sprawling parks where the dogs bring their Starbucks slurping owners to socialize, framed by a plethora of mature trees housing the tufted titmouse, and immature trees that giggled when I said titmouse. However, a ten minute drive brings you to the arrhythmic black heart of the Concrete Kingdom of crumbling grey towers and forgotten trash, both literal and human. Ever since I moved to this interurban metropolis I've felt like an outsider, like I didn't fully belong. Sure, I made efforts to fit in, the obligatory local losing football team flag tackily mounted to my car window and the ever popular "If you don't stand behind our troops why don't you go stand in front of them" bumper sticker; hanging out in a lawn chair in the garage wearing a wifebeater and flip-flops, and trying to drive without ever taking the cigarette out of my mouth and I don't even smoke, but the proud indigenous locals still always seemed to stop and stare, their disgust practicaly screaming "Interloper! Outlander!". In a moment of desperation I considered knocking a few of my front teeth out as my full set of chompers are a noticeable anomaly, but chickened out at the last second and opted for soiling myself in public instead, but that only goes so far.
So in an effort to quell my feelings of being segregated and ostracized, for my birthday my beautiful wife didn't just give me this incredible shirt, she has given me the gift of Acceptance...Acceptance howling at a green moon.
A Green Moon.
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