Saturday, February 25, 2006

Old People Must Die - A Teenage Angst Blog Entry

I hate old people. I don't mean really old people. I mean people who are older than me. Like people in their forties, around there. You know why? Because they all want to help you. People that age want to help people my age because they think they know something about the world. They think they know something about anything but they know nothing about everything. I know I don't know anything! I accept that. People get a couple more years on them and suddenly they think they're authorities on subjects.

No! You dense charlatan! If I were like you, it might be different. If I was just a bite-sized version of Old Person #8769B, then, yes, fine, you can give me advice and tell me what to do. You can instruct me and guide me to my next step in life so I can follow in your horrendously droll footsteps. But you know what, oldie? I ain't you! I refuse to be you! You bore the hell out of me and I never want to be the same as you are.

To an old person, I imagine I look like little more than a lazy mooch and, to be frank, that's basically what I am at this juncture. But I don't want to stay this way. I truly, TRULY want to do something with my life and I'd just like a bit of bloody time to do it.

Old people see a gap in society and have an immediate need to fill it. They have a strong desire to reduce everyone to a husk of what they once were. "Oh! A child with no crappy nine to five responsibility and a belief in his own future! OLD PERSON CRUSH!!!"

This old woman, a friend of my mom's, is now trying to hook me up with a job in an insurance company. Hey, great! I've always wanted to die before I had a chance to live. If I have to go into an interview to appease my parents, I'm going to flub it on purpose. SH-ZANG!!!

I know this is totally just like a teenager-style attitude. Oh, everyone older than me is wrong, they don't understand me, I'll never be like they are, I'll show them, etc. etc. I understand and totally see that but I'm not completely without any plans for my future. I just want people to give me some goddamn time. Don't shoehorn me into some freaking cubicle because I'm not productive enough. Of course it'll happen eventually, but the longer I can stave off dinner parties in which discussion of the location at which the dinnerware was purchased constitutes vibrant conversation, the better.



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