Because I’m tired and drained, I decided to once again re-post an older post from my blog. This gem is from 2010 and with my two oldest kids on their way back home, I thought it would be a good time to remind myself that while I don’t like a lot of teenagers out there in the world, I like mine.
Originally titled: Except mine, of course. And yours. I’m sure yours are gifted.
Sometimes I forget that teenagers are such wankpots.
Not me, when I was a teenager. I pretty much rocked.
And not my teenagers. They’re mostly awesome covered in chocolate sauce. Mostly. Except when they are practicing driving and tear up the side of my car against the garage. But usually, chocolately covered awesome.
And not yours, obviously. I’m pretty sure your teenagers are so amazing they’re in the gifted program.
It’s all those other ones. Total wankpots. Completely self absorbed douche-baggery filled assmonkeys.
It’s all about me, me, me. Pay attention to me, love me, need me, exalt me. Wah, wah, wah. What a long, boring story with a plot that goes nowhere.
Okay, maybe not all teenagers, but you know when you just get fed up with that one (or two) that make you want to drive nails into your eyes rather than hear all about their oh-so-hard-fucking life again? Yeah, that one.
Um, hi. You know that bullshit you’ve been trying to feed me? Well, seriously, I’m full. Couldn’t eat another bite. No really. I’m stuffed.
If my generation was Generation X, then the current one is Generation Whine. And I don’t know what it is they are complaining about. They have YouTube, flash mobs, Lady Gaga, massive texting, instant gratification and they’re STILL not happy unless you are singing their praises 24/7.
Duuuudes. I’m tired. I just cannot validate you anymore. I just can’t. I have serious things to do like raise a family and pay a mortgage and dye my ever grey-ing hair. I’m very busy. Please take a number and wait for me to call you when I give a shit. Which will probably happen sometime around the time when you are no longer a teenager and are a tax-paying, contributing member of society.
And. I might not even like you then.
You might turn into one of those adults who wears pyjama pants to the coffee shop and carries a small dog around in an oversized handbag.
In which case, you’re on your own.
And now, I’m going to go and hug my kids for not being bat shit crazy.