My Generation is Useless


There’s something to be said about professionalism in this day and age. Especially about professionalism within the younger generations.  I don’t count myself because, let’s face it, I’m an anomaly.  I am among the most disrespectful, unprofessional, and incompetent generation, well, ever.  Of course, I don’t know if it’s actually “ever” because I haven’t been alive for very long, but that’s, at least, what my parents say, what my grandparents say, and what all the books I’ve ever read say. 

I don’t know where this comes from. Let’s explore.  

We are a part of the generation of kids who run the show.  We are the Kings of the Palace. Only about half of my generation was spanked. The rest of us got away with murder. We would terrorize everyone around us, screaming and crying in restaurants, super markets, on planes – there was no discipline and no limits.

We were born into families who didn’t want us, weren’t ready for us, too poor to care for us, and, yet, we were still spoiled rotten. 

So it’s no wonder we get into the work force and don’t know how to dress ourselves, talk to adults, or have ANY respect for anyone around us. 

We can barely read, we’re trained to revere the poison that is reality television and spit on any genius or quirkiness in our vicinity.

We were taught how to cheat – how to lose weight without diet or exercise, how to care for your garden without getting on your knees, paint a house without climbing a ladder and it’s high time the people in my Lost Generation pick up a fucking hammer and nail something down, for once. Maybe an interview. Or at least show up on time.

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minou et jade


I’m so pathetic. Every time I leave my house to do whatever it is I have to do, I have this strange tugging at my heart. Most people would recognize it as homesickness or a deep longing, bordering on despair. But to me? I know exactly what it is: I miss my cats. I leave my cats behind to go about my day. They realize what I’m doing halfway through doing it. I’ll yank my jacket on, tug on my shoelaces, and there they’ll be – sitting on the WiFi router box, and I swear they’re pouting. I run my fingers over their heads, scratch a little between their ears and prop their chin with my knuckle and say, “I love you.” Then I lock my door, walk out the building and I can still feel them. “Mommy? Where did you go? Why aren’t you cuddling with me? Rubbing my belly? Picking me up and twirling me around? Can’t we hang out all day watching TV and napping? Why are you leaving me? I promise we can watch Doctor Who!”   Oh, just fucking kill me.


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