The House of Paradox

The exterior walls of my home are constructed from crystal clear bands of tough but pliable rubber, allowing me to (with some effort) enter anywhere but at the immobile brushed steel doors and see through everything but the lead-plated granite windows.

There are only two steps in the stairs to the second floor, and each one is 11 feet high. It's easier to climb the tree next to the building and then worm my way through the pliable rubber walls.

I have wall to wall carpeting surrounded by a 12 inch border of exposed floor.

I attempt to keep it clean with a vacuum that has no receptacle, but insteads spews the debris and detritus back into the air.

I keep my clothes in a closet that is meticulously organized, but the hangers are covered in teflon, and designed at such an angle that all my garments fall haphazardly to the floor.

I pick out my clothes for the day, remove my iron from the freezer and run its cheese grater surface across the fabric.

My nearest neighbors are six miles off, while friends that live a 14 hour drive away all live in houses butting up against my quarter acre lot.

My lawn is dirt, but beneath it is a secret network of tunnels with grass spouting from the ceiling. I trim that grass with a Norelco Electric razor to keep up appearances.

I leave for work each evening, return each morning and glad that I don't work the night shift.

Welcome to the neighborhood.