The Children of the 90s

There were the baby-boomers; our parents. There were the Gen X'ers; our Older Brothers and Sisters. We are just becoming... only now do we realize what we are. We are Generation Y, or maybe its Generation Why The Hell Are We Here?

Barbie was still around... but now no one likes a blond slut. G. I. Joe - Real American Hero! till he picked up a rifle and became too violent. We watched as neon went black, acid-washed became acid tone and attitude. Our Brothers and Sisters breathed air. We breathe smoke. Mall bangs are weird, the Mullet's a Fad and a bumpersticker. The only think we own from the eighties are our beater cars, plastered with stickers filled with the cynical wit and simple hatred that we can supply the world.

The Cars aren't music! Madonna's a Mom. No more like a virgin for her... Life is cheap, I enjoy watching it get put out on the TV. Then I can watch it get put out in my school yard. 666 and 187. I know these numbers, do rags, glocks, acid, crank, ganja, E, special K, coke, tweak. This and some trendy bottles of water will do for a night. The Looks still count, now we can go eat, vomit, chug a diet supplement and go driving.

Old people should do us a favor... die and decrease the surplus population. People don't trust us, Cops are suspicious of us, our Parents don't want us, and Jesus never came in the first place! How the Hell is he supposed to come back?! Sex will kill you faster than the drugs, and they'll kill you as fast as a bullet. We were dosed with self-loathing and morbid images, like radiation from the first atom bomb. Now it radiates out like a cancer from our bodies, hundred yard stares on people too young to even really remember the last real war. At least we'll be close in age to our kids... we'll only be fifteen years older than them. We didn't ask for it, we didn't want anything to do with it. And they warn us that smoking kills us faster. Maybe that's why I bought my first pack of camels.

Live Fast Die Pretty.

We have heroes. Most of them are dead rap artists or angry rancorous hard rockers or concentration camp models. Money makes the Man. And the man buys the shit he doesn't need. We have scars. We have holes where that chunky-Charlie God never meant for them to be. I have ink under my skin, maybe some in the reptilian blood flowing through my veins. Older than we have to be, maybe by choice, maybe by some mistake, maybe by Darwin's survival of the fittest. Reality bites, so we watch reality TV. Sell your soul, at least you can afford the gas prices. Angels with no wings, Tilted Halos.

We are the generation that will ride this one into the ground.

At least it will be one hell of a ride before we're done.

M.B. "Si"