I live in Southern California’s golden triangle of suburban prestige: safe streets, sky-high property values, and public schools so highly rated they practically demand tuition. But on weekends and holidays, my block transforms into a theme park of inflatable bounce castles, fold-out chairs, and off-brand DJ booths—all courtesy of neighboring homeowners hosting backyard fiestas for their tiny heirs.
With festivity comes the scourge: street congestion. Cars squeeze themselves into curbside crevices like sardines in a midlife crisis. They stack and cram and sidle up so tight to my house you’d think we were giving away parking validation and carne asada.
Every so often, a guest parks with their bumper edging an inch—an inch—into the edge of my newly repaved driveway. A driveway I paid for myself because city bureaucracy shrugged and pointed to tree roots like they were an Act of God. That innocent slab of concrete cost me $5,500. Every time a Honda Pilot sniffs it without permission, I feel like I’m watching someone use my toothbrush.
Still, I try to be Zen. I tell myself: “People want to be here. This isn’t intrusion. It’s affirmation. I am so blessed to live in a place so desirable, others will risk a petty homeowner’s wrath just to brush against my apron.”
Then there’s the nightly ritual across the street. My neighbors, bless them, have adopted my driveway as part of their sacred reverse-entry protocol. They swing into my drive like a fighter pilot locking onto a carrier, headlights blazing through my living room window while I’m watching a true crime doc with my wife. Then they shift into reverse and back into their own driveway like they’re starring in a Ford commercial for backing-in bravado.
Again, I resist the pettiness. I whisper: “What an honor to share my $5,500 slab of artisanal pavement. The city may have abandoned me, but I haven’t abandoned my commitment to grace.”
But some nights, I spiral. I see my empty driveway (because my Honda is parked dutifully inside the garage like a respectable introvert) and I grow suspicious. “They’re circling,” I think. “Someone’s going to claim this space. They’re going to park smack in the middle of my private driveway, right under the basketball hoop I haven’t used since 2008.”
In my darkest moments, I fantasize about war. “Let them try it,” I growl internally. “I’ll tow them. I’ll call the police. I’ll lawyer up. I’ll blog about it to my three dozen loyal followers and publicly shame their license plate into eternity.”
And just when I think I’ve shaken off my paranoia, the sirens come. Always the sirens. I live wedged between two hospitals, so I’m serenaded hourly by ambulance howls and the Doppler wail of emergency response. It’s like being reminded every ten minutes that death is always trending.
The crowded streets don’t help. It’s not just congestion—it’s existential compression. The world is full. There’s no more room. Civilization is a Jenga tower one move away from collapse.
And still, I try to be kind. I try to be sane. “I’m not petty,” I tell myself. “I’m not paranoid. I’m just emotionally literate.”
So I do what I’ve always done: I go to the piano. I sit and play one of the hundreds of songs I’ve written since I was sixteen. The music softens the beast. It wraps my dread in a velvet ribbon of minor chords. Unfortunately, all my songs sound vaguely identical—like clones from the same melancholy womb. But I take what I can get.
If twenty minutes of recycled piano sadness gives me peace in the suburbs, then I’ll sit at that bench and bleed quietly into the keys. No apologies.
Cinemorphosis 
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