On the Road by Jack Kerouac is in its intermediary stages of mesmerizing me. It makes me want to ride a bicycle to every small town and bustling metropolis in the country. It's making me restless, like I was when I came home to Houston from New York and realized that I'm in the wrong place: the middle-class suburbia where people seem to care more about their lawns, cars, and incomes than their lives. I'll never be a homeowner, I swear to it. The day I worry about pressure-washing my driveway so that the neighbors will complement me on my pearly white concrete parking spot will be the day Satan is fashioning rock-hard popsicles out of the souls of the damned.