We had one summer to discover America.
It began in an idyllic suburb in Orange County. We were surrounded by manicured lawns and strip malls. We were trapped in a maze of winding estates. Everything was immaculate. Sterile. It felt like purgatory.
Our existence in this place was nothing short of an intrusion. While our neighbours drove their SUVs to the beach and had garden parties, we were stuck in our unfurnished apartment, eating food off of a bed box we found on the street.
Gradually, the more we were worn down by the staleness of our surroundings, the more our presence there took on a sense of purpose. On a subconscious level we came to find pleasure in subverting the neatness that this neighbourhood had tried so hard to establish. Our poverty, our filth, and our bare feet all became badges of honour that we displayed proudly in the face of the surrounding white-washed banality.
We had to get out. Suburbia had worn us down to such a point that we were ready to do almost anything for the sake of a brief respite from the boredom. And so we embarked on what became our own perverted take on the classic American road-trip.
Where we saw seriousness we met it with absurdity, in the presence of order we sought out mischief, when we found the American Dream we tried to swindle it out of beer money.