Millennials are killing me. And not just because “technically,” according to some piece of shit flow-chart delineation, I’m on the older cusp of being one (in numbers only, my imaginary friends. In numbers only).
I was engaging in a fairly regular morning FB messenger rant with a dear old friend the other day about how people suck and we’re better. Clearly, feeling this way – or being pompous assholes – are qualities not unique to any one generation. But I digress.
The conversation with my equally mentally “problematic” buddy berating millennials compactly summed up my disdain for life in 2016. It went something very close to this, beginning oddly, though innocuously enough, with:
Mon, 9:20 AM
M: Fuck this.
Me: Yeah. Fuck THIS.
I need to listen to some amazing, obscure elitist jazz. Any recommendations?
M: Not jazz really, but…West Montgomery and Django. Tal Mahal good.
Me: I listen to all that shit a lot. Something new for fuck’s sake [I’m not sure why I have any friends at all, really]
M: The late great Allen Toussaint. Madeleine Peyroux!
Me: Downloading latter. I just realized you’re the only friend I’d ask for a jazz recommendation from, other than my dad’s old musician friends. Ha. [My father was a jazz fusion guitar genius who was murdered in 2008]
No one else knows about anything good.
M: Yes, because people have shitty taste. People are shitty.
Me: I just want to wake up in my own apartment and do whatever I want. Is that too much to ask? [Mind, this is what I pretty much do already]
M: No way. Welcome to the club, baby!
Me: I hate straight jobs. I don’t even show up for them. I should have gone out with Amy Winehouse.
[Here comes the crazy]
Me: I just want a chill life where I can indulge in my indulgences. Without judgment. I don’t mean just drugs or booze or shit like that [“just”]. Music. Art. Whatever. The shit in life that’s good.
M: Right there with you. Honestly, this place is a fucking mess.
Me: There’s not a ton of good shit but the shit that’s good is fucking great.
[After an interlude of discussing shitty weather and how we should hightail it to New Orleans, I talk more about jazz, for a change, and rant about the sad state of modern affairs]
Me, referring to my girlfriend: She’s smart. Very. And she likes jazz and music. Just not like I do. You know?
M: Dude, no one loves music like we do.
Me: Some dead horns did. Some broke-ass musicians do. And not bar band [insert your local suburban town] losers.
Me: Dude, I don’t WANT to fucking work in media or doing social media marketing. What a bullshit way of life, man. Constructions of bullshit founded on more bullshit constructions.
M: Jesus was a social marketing expert.
Me: Fuck Jesus.
Me: Jesus was a carpenter. At least working with your hands you have something tangible at the end of the day. I have no respect for people who work in intangibilities anymore.
If you’re not creating, you’re fuckin’ useless.
Like the stock market. What is THAT?!
M: Well, most people are drones.
Me: Yet those people are the rich ones.
Who best know how to play and manipulate dungeons and dragons for suits. Aka “The Market.”
M: Babe, I worked in hedge funds. I know.
Me: Yeah. Bullshit! I’m ranting and I don’t care.
M: Rant away.
Me: Like, when did ideals and principles become so passe, and when did we relegate them to the stuff of immature minds?
I think it’s more a sign of weakness to fall in line in the march toward Death and taxes. [Says me as I open a package of Ramen and dump it into boiling water]
I just don’t buy into it all. Everything feels so Orwellian now. Why oh why couldn’t I have been a flapper?
M: Lock and step.
Me: Like I need my cousin’s douchebag, smarmy Republican husband drinking his 12-year-aged scotch at Christmas parties telling me how great his life is because he makes fake paper money ripping people off. And how I need to be responsible. “Get a house. Have some kids.”
Eh, fuck it.
There is no respect for outliers anymore.
M: Preaching to the choir, kiddo.
Me: Seriously, though. There’s no culture. Look at these millennials. They’re the first generation of entirely complicit corporate automatons. Open wide and swallow.
M: That’s why we have to be stronger.
Me: They have no counterculture whatsoever. The last time there really was one was in the ’90s. These kids are spoon-fed by the interests of three all-for-profit corporate behemoths who control every industry from entertainment to agriculture. And the millennials suck it up gladly with short straws.
Like, think about what “cool” means today.
“Cool” to me as a kid was like, people with passion and talent who didn’t give a fuck what other people thought of them. Who did what they did because they needed to in their souls. Who dressed how they wanted. Who had ideas and talked about them and were angered and outraged by things that should anger and outrage. The impotence to change them is moot. The consciousness and desire are what’s important. There’s none of that now.
My family holidays consist of a gaggle of Amazonian blondes in too much makeup and fuck-me pumps spending the whole time taking selfies and posting them on Instagram with “hashtags” like #mycousinsarehotterthanyours. FML.
“Cool” now is Miley Cirus having glitter cum-simulant oozed all over her skanky face on Vevo.
M: Maybe she’ll be dead soon.
Me: No. She’s not even cool enough to die. [No, I’m not advocating that death is cool or wishing Miley Cyrus dead. I’m sure she’s a lovely person. Ok, not the last part]
Like at least if someone dies, you’re like, dude, it’s awful and tragic and shitty, but I respect it in a way.
The excess. Or just bowing out when it’s your time.
There’s just nothing. She’s a pimple on the ass of society.
I don’t know, man. And what happened to conversation? People are so vapid.
M: Um, yes.
Me: No one can talk about anything of substance anymore without rolling their eyes or glazing over and checking their phone.
M: People are boring and stupid. Why do you think I’m sort of a recluse?
Me: Oh, me too. I’m better off with the friends in my head or in my headphones.
[Took awhile!] I sound extra crazy today, huh?
M: Eh. Fuck it. You’re talking to Queen Crazy [this is partially true, albeit not really demonstrated by this particular convo]
Me: I actually mean everything I’m saying.
M: I know. So do I.
Are we the only ones left who do?
x Juliet, in jogging pants