My generation seems to hold its sadness sacred and romantic. I’m one of those Millennials whose adolescence held awkward court in the early 00’s.
We spent our teen years with Fallout Boy and As I lay Dying and in basements of our grandparents homes with Bob Dylan and Quiet Riot on Vinyl and in my case, hiding behind my insanely religious step-fathers shitty house listening to Nirvana on CDs borrowed from older friends who, in hindsight, someone really should have made sure I wasn’t alone with, but I’m wandering off topic. We started studying for SATS at 13. We went to therapists because our parents/guardians didn’t want us as emotionally inept as they were. We learned about sex in chat-rooms, lying about A/S/L.
We got good at talking about our feelings with people who might have been nothing like us. Somewhere along the way, for different reasons, we got really good at dying. Really good at falling in love with our own sadness and desperation and romanticizing the silver ribbons of scar-tissue on our wrists and upper-arms and thighs.
A decent portion of us left institutions of higher learning and fell into the dark maw of economic collapse because Fuck us, right?
We Stayed in the university towns we moved to and tended bars, went back to the places we were from and opened vintage stores and Occupied Wall Street. We went into our Fields and became Vegan leaders of today who participate in less damaging consumerism. We took Jobs in the Tech-sector and made shitloads of money we lovingly toss into burning man. We also became the new, Hip face of the Alt-right too, unfortunately, and a myriad of self-serving shitty things. We became adults who strive to make the world something it wasn’t when we arrived. We done good for Hipster Scum, you know?
Maybe it’s time to stop romanticizing our sadness for other people’s consumption. I am not proud of the scars I walk around with, in the same way I’m not proud of the terrible Self-Tanner and Black-eyeliner and dresses over jeans and liking Dane Cook. I want to shine brightly until I blink away, something I never thought I’d feel when I was younger.
As usual, I don’t have a suitable ending here.
I love you, scars and all.