I was the product of an aborted pregnancy, son to a loving single mother and a loving single father, and I breathe your air and eat your food and watch your popular television. I listen to your top forty station and shop at the same supermarket. I stand behind you in line at the register and roll my eyes whenever you bring out the coupon book. I enjoy pornography in mislabeled folders behind unassuming titles on my inordinately expensive laptop; my wife and two daughters live without suspicion. I’m a family man living alone in a studio apartment with a pool in the backyard and a full wet bar, and I’m too homeless to get myself a shower and a job because I’d much rather spend the money on charitable endeavors, like my 401k and the stock market. I wear Armani suits, I wave to you when we pass each other in our Tahoes on the way to soccer practice; I send letters to the sad kids on our street telling them to buck up, because things will get worse, and not to worry. Tonight I’ll come to your door, and I’ll ring the doorbell once and once more for nicety’s sake, and I’ll bring a casserole in my expensive oven glassware, and I’ll tear down your walls, and I’ll tie up your lover and leave you with nothing but your sensible white shoes and your IRS troubles. And we’ll live happily ever after, all by ourselves, in our respective worlds, in our respective corners, and I don’t think anything could possibly go south from up there on top of the world
— Newman
