Dear Disillusioned Twenty-somethings of America,
Quit your bitching. Especially those of you with mothers and fathers who love you, college degrees, and hybrid cars. If you so choose to make everything you do, say, and eat (God.) a political statement, I support your choice. But don't reprimand me for eating cheese (regardless of the metaphors you use, cheddar IS NOT crack). Back off of my friends who light up in bars where everyone else is smoking. It's a bar, dammit. If you can't stand the smoke, well, you know the rest. Remember that your reading of Joseph Campbell, Jacques Derrida, and Karl Marx is merely an interpretation, not permission to instigate fights with people who would otherwise probably like you despite your ridiculous upper-middle class oppression. At least a little. And for God's sake, get a haircut, take a shower, and get rid of the bandanas around your necks. Your mama loves you and wants you to wash behind your ears and under your arms, your grandma does not approve of your strategically planned grease ball 'do, and none of you are cowgirls, regardless of what you do with your lassos. Clean people get jobs. Jobs give you experience. Experience, not club drugs and philosophical texts, makes you wise.
Rock crack babies. Read to the blind. Recycle til your heart's content. Do something productive instead of bitching about how the world is going straight to hell. And don't blame me for global warming because I bought my socks at Wal-Mart. Blame your SUV-driving parents.
I love you, twenty-somethings. I'm one of you, and I'm not saying I'm better. Hell, I'm bitching, too. But I am saying this: Learn to act and not speculate, practice and not theorize. Soy yogurt won't change the world, but teaching a kid to read will.
Bless your hearts.