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An Open Letter to all Tweens on Account of Their Superior Attitude and For Calling Me Ma’am Yesterday

I hate you all.

That’s right I’m talking to you. You and all your friends. What with all your hip reality shows like 16 and Pregnant, your Jonas Brothers, your Bratz…that’s right, I’m on to you Tweens. I know what makes you tick.

How dare you waltz into what should be my advertising demographic and suddenly become such a seductive whore to all the marketing departments who drool after your precious dollar bill. I’m the one with a job asshole, and the fact that you spend more money per year on down loadable music and movies while people my age still look longingly at their collection of CDs and Mix Tapes means nothing.

That’s right, nothing.

Do you know what it costs to be as apathetic as a Gen Xer? Sure I may not be as cool as I once was but I still have some value. I bet that you don’t even know this (and why should you since you can’t even comprehend anyone other than yourselves) but in the early nineties I was the belle of the ball when it came to being pandered to by the media. Books were written about me. For God’s sake I was Nirvana. Because of me you are able to walk onto any street corner in the world and grab a Vente Carmel Macchiato for $4.

I am the reason the Ethan Hawk, Winona Ryder, and Jeanne Garofolo had careers.

Most importantly, it is because of me and people my age that Ecstasy dealers were allowed to see any kind of profit at all.

And don’t even get me started on what I had to do to make Raves popular.

Back in the day, my generation said, “No More” to being slaves to corporations and struck out on our own, creating new media outlets like ‘zines (photocopied and stapled magazines filled with deep ideas and really bad poetry) and music festivals filled with estrogen (Lilith Fair). Hell, we even replaced our parent’s hippy music with our own (Phish) and traveled around the country selling organic, vegan pot brownies to rich kids set on rebelling against the “Man”, but at least we realized that our efforts were trite and meaningless, unlike you who think that the world owes you something just because you were born.

We were the influence for independent comic books, video games filled with violence, and the introduction of MTV Unplugged.

We made tattoos mainstream, Zima popular and acid wash jeans accountable for their fashion faux pas.

And, if it wasn’t for my generation’s dysfunctional love for George Lucas, the man would have been strung up and dismembered for what he did to the Star Wars Universe (especially when he added Hayden Christensen’s little whiny-bastard’s face at the end of the re-mastered version of Return of the Jedi…oh dear God, the pain).

So believe me, when I walk into a store and am accosted by the lingering scent of your self-prophesied grandeur, just know that I don’t give a rats ass about all your candy colored wet dreams about the perfect sweet sixteen party. In my mind’s eye all I see is flannel shirts, combat boots, and tattoos covering the flesh of everyone in the 32-38 year old age bracket.

Why? Because I’m done being your mom-aged butt-monkey and made to feel worthless in the eyes of the establishment. I’m getting older and pretty soon so will you, and mark my words little one, one day before you know it, some guy in marketing will realize that six year olds have spending accounts and your day in the sun will be up.

And when that day comes no amount of Miley Cyrus will save you.

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