It is a cookie cutter neighborhood. Houses sit like shoe boxes with holes cut out of the front: a medium-sized square hole, set several inches in from the left marks a bedroom window. Two feet from this opening, a longer hole running vertically marks the front door. Finally, a panorama-sized hole marking a large living room runs along the rest of the box. The large window boasts amazing views of the shoebox across the street. A view both majestic and accessible, giving the option that a gazer needn't get up off the couch to enjoy. Some shoeboxes have been modified and modernized by an incision made to remove a garage. The space has been surgically altered to become another room in the shoe box with a large square hole in it's front. This hole provides yet another spectacular view for the homeowner, but this hole serves as a place to admire one's own car parked in front of where the garage used to be.

As I walk, I imagine when the cookie cutter neighborhoods looked like Edward Scissorhands. The 60s were the prime of the shoebox neighborhood. I dream of when each box was Scissorhands-ed; rows of shoeboxes, each turned sideways and painted the colors of cupcakes and burning neon signs. Each shoebox comes with it's own housewife. Her skin is an orange tint, her hair is in a perfectly coiffed flip.

The pantyhose make her legs look smooth to the touch. I think about touching them, but I can't yet. My eyes move up her body, scanning the curves, stopping and settling into each soft spot. With my sight, I pour over lips and teeth. I want her gelatin-cased Mother's Little Helpers to fall out and into my hands. I would take the spent shell casings of teeth and tip my head back to feel happy. She smells like butter cream frosting and burnt sugar. Her hips sit under a stained apron, serving as shelves for her manicured hands. I will now restrain her properly.

I lay her down with care. She sinks into the carpet, irritating the delicate skin of her soft arms. Her legs prove to be as smooth as I had imagined. I feel them as I bind her ankles together. This is the process beginning. I bind the ankles. Then I bind the wrists. She doesn't fight. I peel a piece of duct tape from the roll and place it neatly across her mouth. I do so skillfully, as not to smudge her lipstick. I tear a larger piece to fit neatly over her eye sockets.

Once she has been prepared, I look through the albums stacked neatly on the floor next to the record player in her room. I find Lesley Gore Sings Songs of Mixed-Up Hearts and prepare "You Don't Own Me" for repeated plays. I stop and take a moment to thank Lesley for her contribution to the women's liberation movement. I begin the song and turn the volume up. It is important to share Lesley's message. I stand over her. She feels my weight settle, then shift toward the bound body. Never one to resist, the body lay still. I can see her face is wrinkled up under the tape. She is smiling. I kneel next to the body and place one hand over the tape on her mouth. The other hand pinches her nostrils. She thrashes mildly. She kicks her bound feet on the soft carpet. Three kicks. She is done. I sit there for a moment and stare at her. You don't own me, Leslie says. I'm not one of your many toys. She has become a toy. She is my object. I roll the body onto its right side facing the window. This is her majestic view.