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Generations by Ray Printer Friendly

(Author’s note: I wrote this a while back, when I was living in NYC. I didn’t have a website to vent on back then, so I wrote my crazy bullshit on a brown paper bag with a black magic marker. It looks a LOT cooler on a paper bag, so feel free to write it out and hang it on your wall like I did. Also, on another paper bag, draw a skull and crossbones and write on it, “Oprah’s a bitch and then you die”—that was the other paper bag poster I had on my wall, and it looks tight.)



I belong to the fuck-you generation. All kinds of cute names have been invented: Gen X, Gen Y, whatever. It all amounts to the same thing…

F. U. Gen, if you want to get all cute about it. I don’t.

Why the fuck-you generation? Because that’s what we’ve been told our entire lives. Not in those exact words, maybe, but the message came across. Not enough time, not enough money, not enough world to go around.

Yes, I love you, but we just can’t afford it. Yes, I care about you, but I have to go to work. Yes, I want to spend time with you, but I’m SO tired.

Self-made sandwiches have replaced home-cooked meals, VCRs and DVD players have replaced the bedtime story. I don’t know anyone who has ever been tucked in. “Brush your teeth and go to bed,” Mother says as she sheds her work clothes and prepares to sit down at the kitchen table to write checks for the monthly bills.

We’re a generation of children who never got to be children. We did our own laundry, we cooked our own food, we formed our own ideas. And then you wonder why we have become these strangers that don’t care to listen. We steal, kill, or work for what we want, the fuck-you generation kids, and we do it without any help. Because that’s how we’ve been raised—without any help.

And if you have a problem with that?

Fuck you.


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