The Feral Autobiography of Gen X
Warning: This history lesson may cause uncontrollable laughter, inappropriate flashbacks, and spontaneous middle fingers at authority.
We (Gen X) were raised wild.
Free-range kids, unsupervised, written off, and left alone.
The last kids to vanish into the world and find our way back every night before the streetlights came on… without GPS or guardrails.
We were able to get away with shit. So. Much. Shit. Because there were no cameras, no receipts, and no digital trail of every bad decision we made.
If you weren’t there, it didn’t happen. And if it did happen, you kept your mouth shut.
This gave us something no generation after us will ever know… true freedom.
We tasted it, we abused it, and it shaped us.
We survived broken homes, broken systems, and broken metal playgrounds, which gave us resting bitch face + sarcasm sharp enough to carve our initials into history.
Gen X gets skipped over, dismissed, and ignored, but we’ve done more heavy lifting than we’ll ever get credit for.
We gave the world its outliers, its misfits, its punk rock weirdos—the voices that finally told people they weren’t alone—and in the process, we made being different survivable.
This list isn’t about nostalgia. It’s a record. A reminder. A midlife middle finger that says,
“We’re still here, we’re still laughing, and we still don’t give a fuck what you think.”
This is a love letter to every Gen Xer who’s still carrying around the contradictions, scars, and programming from our feral upbringings.
We don’t need to be fixed; we just need a wine cooler, a nap, and permission to laugh at the dumpster fire we were raised in.
That’s what this list is.
101 reasons we (Gen X) are the loud + proud middle fingers of history:
We learned street smarts at 8. Which meant cramming your entire “Pick me up, I’m in front of the food court” plea into the Collect Call “state your name” beep to avoid using a quarter to call your parents.
We got bullied in person. Not in a comments section... in the jaw. A solid punch, a teacher shrug, and it was handled.
There was no autocorrect. Our spellcheck was sounding shit out, scribbling until it looked close enough, and writing so illegibly that the teacher wouldn't be able to tell. Entire generations of doctors were created this way. It's why Gen X emails are still riddled with typos... we had to teach ourselves what to do with the alphabet.
We had rotary phones. Drunk-dialing didn’t exist... by the time you finished spinning that wheel, you sobered up + reconsidered your life choices.
SOURCE: GOOGLE IMAGES We gave the world alternative comedy. Before us, stand-up was a parade of white dudes in ties telling jokes for Johnny Carson’s approval. Then came Margaret Cho, Janeane Garofalo, Patton Oswalt, Sarah Silverman, Kathy Griffin—too female, too queer, too weird, too real—and suddenly comedy had stretch marks, panic attacks, and was way too honest for network TV.
We grew up navigating by landmarks. “Turn left at the house with the penis-looking statue” was valid GPS.
We only had ONE curfew: the streetlights. No tracking devices, no Find My iPhone app, no helicopter parents. If you ignored it, your mom would hunt you down with a wooden spoon.
We were the OG hustlers. We slid paperclips + playing cards into pay-per-view boxes like horny locksmiths just so we could spend the evening watching scrambled Cinemax, praying for a nipple to materialize.
We didn’t have DMs to slide into. Our thirst traps were publicly humiliating ourselves in live dedications on FM radio for every cousin, neighbor, and classmate to hear, while praying your crush wasn’t in the shower.
We gave the world skateboarding + snowboarding. What started as kids trespassing in empty pools + bombing icy hills turned into the X Games, Olympic medals, and billion-dollar brand deals. Authority said “don’t”... we said “watch us.”
“Better now than later” was our version of healthcare. We got immunity the hard way. No shots, no prevention. Parents sent us to “chicken pox parties” like lambs to slaughter—itching, scarring, and scratching ourselves bloody just to “get it over with.” Fucking, Boomers.
We rang random doorbells + ran. And if you tripped, your friends left your ass behind like the weak gazelle in a nature documentary. Nothing bonded us like hearing a grown man scream “GODDAMN KIDS!” from his porch.
We were the babysitter economy. Nothing says childhood like being in charge of three kids under five while you’re still afraid of the dark. Parents just said, “Don’t open the door, don’t burn down the house.” That was the entire training program.
We made comic books cool. Archie + Richie Rich gave way to Wolverine ripping people apart, Spawn crawling out of hell, and Bart Simpson calling people “butt-munch.” It went from basement boxes to lunchboxes to prime time TV to blockbuster movies. You're welcome entertainment industry!
SOURCE: GOOGLE IMAGES We didn’t get participation trophies. If you lost, you were the loser, and your only consolation prize was perfecting dead-eyed handshakes that screamed “Congrats, asshole” disguised as “lost with grace.”
We trick-or-treated with zero supervision. No parents, no flashlights, no cell phones, just a pillowcase and a sweaty stampede of kids in knockoff princess + superhero costumes from Kmart sprinting across the streets, taking candy from total strangers. If you got lost, you weren’t found. If you got mugged, you lost your candy. Survival of the sugariest.
We didn’t have Pornhub. We watched porn in groups like it was movie night. Five kids crammed on a couch, volume at 1, remote in hand, pretending we weren’t all dying of shame while Debbie did Dallas.
We lived through teachers intercepting our notes. You think getting your phone confiscated is bad? We had our entire social status detonated in front of 28 brutally judgy + hormonal witnesses. It was the medieval version of leaked text messages.
SOURCE: GOOGLE IMAGES Sunscreen wasn’t a thing when we were growing up. Sunburns were just part of summer—red lines, blistered noses, aloe in the fridge, and friends daring each other to slap your back for fun. Skin cancer wasn’t on the radar… bronze was.
We took Flintstones vitamins. The one and only reason Gen X will live to 100. They tasted like chewable gravel, but they made us cockroach-strong.
We followed the ice cream truck like wolves. The same van our parents warned us never to get into… unless it sold ice cream sandwiches, then apparently it was fine.
We grew up wearing rental skates that were never washed. When you can raw-dog athlete’s foot on wheels for a whole decade, you get resilient.
We knew all the kids on our street because we had to play outside. Our group chats were yelling across lawns until some dad told us to shut the fuck up.
We had to call people from payphones when we were lost or needed help. And yes, we had to know their number by heart! If nobody answered, you were fucked. All you could hope is that you weren't where you shouldn't be.
We had to trust strangers to take our picture. Then wait a week to see if we got their thumb or cigarette dangling in the shot.
We had to wait for our favorite song to come on the radio to pirate our music. Then the DJ would ruin the intro, yelling the call sign + tagline into the mic.
We were latchkey kids. We fed ourselves frozen TV dinners, fell asleep to infomercials + televangelists asking for money, and woke up financially ruined by three easy payments of $19.99.
We pioneered the concept of a playlist. Our mixtapes were made with blood, rewinds, and broken hearts. You’re welcome, Spotify.
SOURCE: GOOGLE IMAGES We shared landlines with our parents. Try whispering sweet nothings to your crush while your mom screams “Dinner’s ready!” into the receiver. It also meant we HAD to talk to our friends’ parents... there was no escaping them.
We survived busy signals. The waiting taught us endurance most people don’t have anymore.
We were raised by capitalist day care (a.k.a. malls). We ate there, loitered there, worked there, and absorbed every billboard, free sample, and sales ad like angsty propaganda sponges.
We drank hose water. And we survived, bitches!
We were the original recyclers. We used old butter containers as Tupperware. Every Cool Whip, Country Crock, and sherbet tub lived 27 new lives before disintegrating in the dishwasher.
We had to actually learn math. We were prepared to calculate square roots by hand but not how to calculate a livable wage, a credit score, or when to leave a shitty relationship.
We were the last unreachable generation. We had no cell phones. Leaving the house meant being unreachable, so we had to leave voicemails on answering machines like sad, lil' Desperately Seeking Susan's and wait hours, sometimes days, for call backs.
We spoke in pager code. When you can spell “I love you” in numbers, improvisation is in your blood.
We were raised on Cliffs Notes. The black-and-yellow gospel taught us you don’t have to know the whole book, just enough to fake a book report + pass. It was our first real future-proof skill: do the least possible, sound convincing, and move the fuck on.
SOURCE: GOOGLE IMAGES Our hairspray was basically shellac. It didn't style; it embalmed. One good spray turned your hair into a helmet and the bathroom into a gas chamber.
We survived the evolution of music. From vinyl to Napster, we learned to carry our culture in milk crates, shoeboxes, leather-bound cases, and sketchy LimeWire downloads that nuked the family computer.
We grew up before “automatic” was invented. Seatbelts needed feeding, pencils needed cranking, windows needed rolling, and channels needed changing. We were the automation.
We did our time on fashion’s front lines—shoulder pads, leg warmers, hypercolor shirts, baby doll dresses, velour tracksuits, parachute pants, jelly shoes, scrunch socks, oversized blazers, stirrups, starter jackets, and acid wash. We suffered so many “must-have” styles we didn’t want that now we’re proudly hard-pass people who prefer to be cozy over cool.
Riding “shotgun” had responsibilities. You were the navigation system. Don't know where we're going and/or can't read a map? Get your ass in the backseat!
We had to be home to watch our shows. If your ass wasn’t parked on the couch at 8pm, you were screwed. No catching up, no on demand... you just missed out and had to listen to everyone talk about it. Families structured meals, homework, and phone calls around TV, and when mom screamed, “It’s starting!” you dive-bombed the sofa.
We lived through fast food's golden years. We had 99¢ tacos, two-for-one Whoppers, and the Dollar Menu. It was an entire childhood fueled by value meals + plastic cups we reused as kitchenware.
We had to print out our directions. Or find our way using a map the size of a king sheet that was harder to fold back up than solving a Rubik’s Cube.
We were sold into Glamour Shots (a.k.a. discount brothel starter packs). 1 fog machine, 2 feather boas, 6 lbs. of makeup, and every 40-year-old mom + 14-year-old daughter left looking like they were auditioning for a Whitesnake video.
SOURCE: GOOGLE IMAGES We sang 100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall. Not because we liked it, but because there were no phones, no iPads, no Wi-Fi, and the only “in-flight entertainment” was counting billboards while your siblings drew property lines across the backseat.
We grew up in a fog of cigarette smoke. People smoked in planes, offices, hospitals, and restaurants—there was always a vending machine where you could buy a pack. Moms smoked in cars, dads smoked at dinner tables. And to make sure kids didn’t feel left out, they sold us candy cigarettes that puffed powdered sugar like a baby’s first drag.
We were groomed on TV families that didn’t exist. The Cosby Show (🫣), Full House, Family Matters, Step by Step, Growing Pains, Diff’rent Strokes, Blossom, Punky Brewster—every episode ended in a hug, while our childhoods ended in divorce court.
We got our news in print. The 20-pound Sunday edition was thick enough to lift weights with, lobbed onto the driveway by some half-asleep 12-year-old on a Schwinn at 4am, and divvied up amongst the family like toilet paper during a pandemic.
SOURCE: GOOGLE IMAGES We grew up in the golden age of mascot propaganda. Apparently, the only way to keep us alive was to put a cartoon head in danger. Crime dog. Fire-prevention bear. Egg-shaped food pyramids. Creepy clowns selling burgers. It was like living in a PSA theme park.
We were D.A.R.E.’d into sobriety. Hands down, the dumbest federal program since prohibition. Sitting in a classroom once a week, listening to cops tell us to “just say no” + to narc on friends we see with them, while handing out free pencils that we later used to pack bowls. All it taught us was what every drug looked like, how to identify them by smell, and which friends to hit up if you wanted them.
We treated safety as optional. Helmets were for nerds, seatbelts were toys, and the station wagon trunk was basically a rolling bounce house for kids. It was just laps on laps on laps... until someone peed their pants.
We were programmed to believe nuclear war was inevitable. Every day of the 80s carried the background noise of “What if the world ends tonight?” We figured we’d never make it to adulthood, so we leaned into indifference, sarcasm, and a fuck-you survival instinct. Stop, drop, and roll, baby!
We were raised on commercials more than conversations. “How many licks?” “Where’s the beef?” “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up.” “Calgon, take me away.” Our inner monologues are still narrated by predatory owls, depressed moms in bathtubs, and screaming old ladies with ground beef.
SOURCE: GOOGLE IMAGES We grew up with real concerts. No seats, no rules, no “VIP lounges.” Just 20,000 kids packed-in like sardines, praying they didn't get punched in the pit. $10 got you into U2, The Cure, Metallica, or Smashing Pumpkins—no apps, no barcodes, just ticket stubs we still have in a shoebox somewhere.
We had to call a number (POPCORN) for the time. When knowing the time requires a landline, a quarter, and time to wait for the beep, you know you've grown up deprived AF. It helped that it doubled as a countermeasure when you wanted to hide late-night calls from your parents—post call waiting days.
We learned life skills from Oregon Trail. We navigated dysentery, starvation, snakebites, cholera, broken axles, dead oxen, and burying your best friend under a pixelated tombstone, while your teacher graded papers in peace. Nothing taught Gen X dark humor faster than computer lab.
We played on playgrounds built for lawsuits. Rusted metal, asphalt landings, tractor tires that smelled like piss, and splintered wood chips (if you were lucky)... our recess was basically American Gladiators for kids.
Cartoons were our cult. We woke up at dawn for a buffet of violence, capitalism, and weird-ass mascots. Looney Tunes, He-Man, She-Ra, Transformers, G.I. Joe, Thundercats, Ninja Turtles, Jetsons, DuckTales, Scooby-Doo, Care Bears, Smurfs, Jetsons... the lineup that raised wolves, not children.
SOURCE: GOOGLE IMAGES Everything we loved was labeled satanic. Judas Priest, KISS, Ozzy, D&D, playing your albums backwards, Magic 8 Balls, Ouija boards, horror movies, MTV—even Care Bears, Smurfs, and Rainbow Brite got accused of witchcraft. We were allegedly auditioning for hell. In reality, we were just killing time in the ‘burbs.
We didn't have the luxury of swiping plastic. Debit cards didn’t exist yet, and credit cards weren’t widespread, so it was checkbooks + ledgers or nothing. When you didn't balance that shit, you’d overdraft, bounce checks, get slapped with bank fees, and watch your account get frozen. We had to work to realize we were broke AF.
We mastered an extinct trade. Typewriters demanded perfection from children. One crooked line, one missed letter, and you were refeeding paper at 2 a.m. Imagine doing brain surgery with oven mitts... that’s what typing a term paper on a typewriter felt like.
We came of age in purity culture. Sex was a boogeyman, AIDS was weaponized, homophobia was baked into our classrooms, hysteria consumed our TVs... while everyone still fucked in the back of Buicks. Good thing Degrassi taught us that even hand jobs probably ended in HIV.
We were makeshift parents in the morning. Breakfast, backpacks, bus stop... all handled by kids who still couldn’t pronounce “responsibility.” We trekked through neighborhoods like unsupervised wolf packs, occasionally arriving with missing siblings + zero explanations.
We were raised on underage keggers. Bartles & Jaymes, Zima mixed with Jolly Ranchers, pumping warm beer into red Solo cups until somebody puked in a bush... all before we even had learner’s permits. Somebody’s cousin, somebody’s older brother, some store clerk who didn’t give a shit—if you had $20, you had alcohol.
SOURCE: GOOGLE IMAGES We had no filters. If you were ugly, you just… stayed ugly.
We were nursed back to health on soap operas + war coverage. Sick days were NyQuil, puke bowls, The Price is Right, and Susan Lucci shrieking between Desert Storm updates. We had trauma, explosions, or consumerism. Pick your poison.
Movie theaters were day camps for us. $3 got you in the matinée, and then you lived there till closing. We spent the day enjoying free refills, sticky floors, and rated-R movies, hoping the usher was too stoned to care. We invented “binge-watching.”
We grew up on stranger-danger in the age of serial killers. Don’t talk to strangers, don’t take candy, and don’t help anyone with pets. We grew up thinking the world was one big pedo trap. They had us believing if you made eye contact with a man in a white van, you were gone... straight to the milk carton. TV reminded us nightly that someone out there was collecting heads.
Our parents didn’t entertain us. Boredom was long, painful, and endless. That’s why we invented games like M.A.S.H., Bloody Mary, and prank calls with *69 consequences. Creativity + destruction were the only two modes available.
We didn't have hashtags. It was just a pound sign. They were how you checked your voicemail, stalked the time, or accidentally ordered 500 minutes of The Psychic Hotline. Try explaining a $350 phone bill to a pissed-off Boomer mom with a paddle.
We had to rip our own jeans. Nobody was selling $200 distressed denim. We made them crashing our bikes, getting murdered by our skateboards, and climbing fences we weren’t supposed to. Fashion didn’t invent distressed denim, Gen X did.
We bled for our music. Layers of shrink wrap, impossible spine stickers, and plastic tabs that broke nails. And all for what? A censor label warning us that the songs inside would corrupt our souls. Spoiler: they did, and we loved it.
SOURCE: GOOGLE IMAGES We had to choose: phone or internet. You couldn’t have both. Porn froze mid-download, Napster stalled at 97%, and conversations died mid-flirt. Losing everything to the sound of a ringing phone taught us early on that the internet is cruel, unstable, and never truly yours.
We grew up drowning in mail-order cons. Columbia House promised music, Publisher's Clearing House promised money, and every ad in the newspaper promised a work-from-home job. What we got was debt collectors, junk mail, shame, and disappointment—so no, we don't trust your free trials + limited-time offers.
We brown-bagged our education. Literally. Covering our textbooks with paper grocery bags wasn't about keeping books clean; it was about keeping us human. We turned them into canvases covered in band logos, crush names, stoner doodles, Sharpie dicks, and Garfield drawings. It was how we celebrated individuality in a system determined to strip it away.
WE turned “whatever” into a weapon. It's the one word that can shut down teachers, parents, principals, and cops faster than any protest ever could. It was our way of saying: “I hear you, I don’t care, and I’m going to do it anyway.” You’re welcome humanity!
We were raised on sanctioned violence. Football was a bloodsport, basketball was bar fights in short shorts, baseball was half-drunk chain-smokers, and hockey fights were never broken up. We watched nations nearly murder each other over gymnastics + a white broad take some bitch out at the knees for a figure skating medal.
We were the MTV generation. It was our babysitter, teacher, and drug dealer all in one neon box. We grew up on The Real World, TRL, Jackass, Beavis & Butt-Head, Headbangers Ball, Yo! MTV Raps, Daria, and Celebrity Deathmatch. It taught us how to rebel, how to consume rebellion, and how to laugh while setting ourselves on fire.
SOURCE: GOOGLE IMAGES We made nostalgia into Hollywood’s ATM. Sequels, reboots, “special editions”—our childhoods are everyone else’s Netflix queue. Cobra Kai dragged karate back, Ghostbusters got another sequel, Barbie got a glow-up, Ninja Turtles are still kicking ass, Star Wars refuses to end, and every studio exec knows Gen X will show up with our lunchboxes.
Our vacations were road trips to visit family. Meals came from rest stops, bathrooms smelled like death, and the height of luxury was a Motel 6 with a vibrating bed that took quarters. You could look forward to bingo nights with Grandma, sunburns from running in the sprinklers, and constant warnings not to break Grandpa's commemorative Elvis plates.
We made the fitness fads of the 80s possible. Before us, gyms were just for sweaty bodybuilders. Then America got fat, and suddenly every living room turned into a neon cult: Jazzercise, Tae Bo, ThighMaster, Bowflex, NordicTrack, Jane Fonda VHSes, Richard Simmons crying in short shorts. We were high on the novelty of sweating in front of the TV.
We turned into helicopter parents. After growing up in unlocked houses, drinking hose water, and playing in traffic, we now hover over our children like lunatics... because we know exactly what happens when nobody’s watching.
We had to use libraries + card catalogs. Information wasn’t a click away... it was a pilgrimage. It was rows of index cards in wooden coffins that sent you on a scavenger hunt to find a book that's been missing since 1982. If you were lucky, you could find what you needed in one of the dozens of encyclopedias your parents displayed like the Hope Diamond.
We grew up on drive-in movie theaters. It was a tailgate in a dirt lot with 200 strangers. Cars packed with kids, blankets, pillows, and a trunk full of contraband. You pissed in the bushes, shared popcorn with mosquitoes, and prayed you weren't the asshole whose headlights ruined the screen for everyone.
We had phone books. It was a trade skill to find a phone number. You needed spelling skills, good eye sight, patience, and fingers delicate enough to flip tissue paper pages without ripping them. Screw up the name, and you were talking to a stranger yelling, “WHO IS THIS?”
SOURCE: GOOGLE IMAGES We were raised in acid-trip décor. Burnt orange kitchens, avocado appliances, popcorn ceilings, and glass grapes on coffee tables as decorative centerpieces. We were basically raised in Woodstock's hangover.
We survived Nintendo’s mood swings. Violence was a form of tech support. If the console didn’t work, you hit it. Harder. And harder. Until it obeyed. Blow in it, smack it, jiggle it, and reset it 100x's in rapid succession... then pretend everything was fine when it finally worked... because at least we didn't have to leave the house to play video games anymore.
We survived the VHS economy. First, it was mom + pop shops—waiting weeks to score the new release, begging the clerk to check the drop box. Then capitalism took over, and Blockbuster showed up with 87 copies, late fees we went on the lam to avoid, preaching “Be Kind, Rewind.” We watched the simpler times slip away right before our eyes!
We defined hip hop culture. From N.W.A. to Snoop, Wu-Tang to Public Enemy, Tribe to Missy—this was our soundtrack, our battle cry against poverty, power, and parents who didn’t want to hear about any of it. It was our way of making the world finally hear us.
We flew in the golden age of sky trash. Ashtrays in every seat, booze flowing like tap water, legroom for days, and phones on the headrests that cost a fortune but made you feel like James Bond. Flying wasn’t safe... but it was living. You could wander the aisle like it was Main Street, hug your family goodbye at the gate, and nobody confiscated your shampoo. The good ol' days!
We survived a dead language. We were forced to learn cursive. Seatbelts were negotiable, but cursive was life or death. All that suffering for loops + flourishes that now get auto-signed by DocuSign.
We had Kmart blue light specials. That was our Target, Safeway, Sephora, and Big O Tires all crammed into one fluorescent cave. Fuck your rollbacks—we chased a flashing blue siren like rats chasing chocolate.
We got world news from Kurt Loder. That’s why our bullshit radar is flawless. ‘Nough said.
We grew up on board games + card games. Families didn’t scroll together; they played together. Uno, Sorry!, Life, Monopoly, Yahtzee, Dominoes, Connect Four, CandyLand, Trivial Pursuit—these games were community. We played for hours, trashed each other, swore we’d never speak again, and still showed up the next night for round two.
SOURCE: GOOGLE IMAGES We had to buy whole albums for one song. It was robbery in shrink wrap. One killer track, ten filler tracks, and an art booklet nobody gave a shit about. Spotify kids will never know the sting of spending your whole paycheck in a Sam Goody, Tower Records, or The Warehouse.
We got NO tutors or special treatment. No IEPs, no 504s, no extra time on tests. You either kept up, quit, or got labeled “lazy,” “dumb,” or “has a discipline problem” until you disappeared into continuation school. We were involuntarily sent on the fast track to dropping out.
We made wrestling cool. There would be no Undertaker, Stone Cold, Macho Man, Hulk, or The Rock without us buying into the madness hook, line, and folding chair. Without us, it’s just sweaty men in tights pretending to fight. With us, it was gladiator war, redneck opera, and the most important television event of the week.
We grew up in station wagons + minivans. Our moms ditched wood-paneled wagons for minivans that looked suspiciously like the ones we were warned would kidnap us. But hey, these had cup holders and teal paint jobs, so apparently they were safe. We still don't know what the appeal was.
We had penpals growing up. Long-distance calls were e-x-p-e-n-s-i-v-e. Ten minutes with your aunt in another state cost as much as a tank of gas, so if your friends lived in a different area code, you wrote letters. No parent was paying $2.99/minute for you to talk to anyone you weren't related to.
To all my Gen Xers out there…
Growing up wild wasn’t easy, and that’s what made us hard. Our skin thickened, our humor sharpened, and our sarcasm learned how to aim like a sniper.
Gloriously unqualified, hilariously unprepared, but somehow we’re raising kids + caring for parents. Middle fingers up, capes on.
This one’s for you, my feral, unfixable kindreds—I fucking love YOU.
To being the middle fingers of history,
Founder, This Mustard-Stained Playground (2024)
Gangster, The Entire Internet (Since 2014)
Beer Hater, No Matter How It's Brewed (Since 1979)
Step into your YOU-SHAPED ERA: Your Personality DNA Results Are Waiting 🦄🦄🦄 »»»
Who’s the nutcase behind this cart-sized flamethrower?
Well, hey there, internet stranger… soon to be kindred? Maybe? Possible Well, see soon enough. 🤷♀️
I’m Dre Beltrami, the OG of Personal Branding Leaving A Paper Trail for Weirdos to Find You. I write with a middle finger that's 90% intuition, 10% spite, and 0% respect for industry norms. Expect rants, rebellion, and gloriously unqualified advice so feral it comes with a confetti cannon. 🥳
If shame had a laugh track, it would sound like this.
We’re not licensed. We’re not certified. We’re not even good at following directions. We’re just two basic midlife bitches airing the messy truth about how wild adulthood has turned out to be.
Kristi Keller 🇨🇦 (my Gloriously Unqualified ride or die) + I roast our imposter syndrome, weaponize our humor, and drag that filthy animal we call capitalism the way we drag shame through a family reunion.
We bring brutal confessions, questionable metaphors, and actual pee-yourself-a-little belly laughs every Friday, live on Substack. Join us. Misery loves a notification.
"We had no filters. If you were ugly, you just… stayed ugly." << There are not enough "falling over dead" GIFS in the universe to show how hard I laughed at this one 😆😆😆😆
We are the only generation to have lived both fully digital and analog. We are literally the end of one era and the beginning of another.