I'm a man with graying hair, a briefcase in my hand, and a tie around my neck. I walk into a small, suburban home after a long day of work and my wife is there to greet me. She's a chubby, blonde woman with a plastic smile. She turns and shouts something upstairs and the children scamper down the steps, chattering" Two boys. Mikey is a seven-year-old with infectious energy and his two front teeth missing. Steven is a nine-year-old constantly bubbling with questions and new ideas.

We sit down for dinner. Our silverware scratches against plates as we cut our meat and discuss boys' soccer game and my day at work. We don't talk about the doctor's recommendation of Ritalin for Mikey, Steven's problems at school, or why my wife and I don't sleep together anymore. We never talk about anything like that.

I wake up, once again I'm teenage boy in a sleeping bag on the floor of his friends' apartment. I try to decide if this was a pleasant dream or a nightmare, but can't. Who knows what I want anymore? Who's to say that I really wouldn't be happy, married with children, living an ordinary American middle class life? Why not? Maybe this silly, rebellious phase will come to pass. Maybe I shouldn't fuck up my life too much, just in case.