Every year I make a commitment to celebrate Independence Day by reclaiming my own independence from my obnoxious children and bumbling husband. I get the fuck outta dodge.
As soon as I see those fireworks stands start popping up around town, I begin to salivate. I'll be heading west as soon as the clock strikes midnight on July 4. I don't tell them where I'm going and by this point they've gotten used to it. I do it every year.
I've taken up with a few motorcycle gangs in my travels and enjoy a myriad of activities including prostitution, drug dealing and performing in magic shows. It's really something that allows me to feel reckless abandon and to come home to my family refreshed and full of diseases. To me, it's the personification of the American dream to escape suburbia and traumatize your children and yourself.
After about a month or two, I get tired of eating out of trash cans and taking showers at gas stations. I tell my husband to come get me, and he does what I say, otherwise I'll let everyone know his terrible secret.
Then I go back to being the wonderful soccer mom on Xanax that I am. God bless America.