You snicker when you see them at Urban Outfitters and American Apparel, you speed up your "just browsing" when you see them at the thrift store, you grudgingly accept their presence at vegetarian restaurants, and above all else, you feel curmudgeonly and confused when they're at the same shows as you.
It's the cycle of life. The wheel of hipster dharma. The not-so-sad realization that you can't relate to these spry little douche piles, which in turn leads to the painful, ironically adult realization that they're the ones that will have to save (or not save) your bitter, wrinkled ass in the next 30-40 years, since by then your parents' generation will have long since bankrupted Social Security.
But there's a way out of this.
I propose we pool the oldster resources of our slightly gainful employment and develop cell phones that are powered by the kinetic energy generated by text messaging and mobile web navigation, and by the absorption of thermal energy from grubby little scenster hands.
The phones, of course, will connected only to a virtual internet inside Second Life. If you stop typing, your phone dies and you lose all of your (virtual) virtual assets like Myspace booty calls and Flickr accounts. Excess power generated by the phones will be sold back to the grid. Web 3.0: The Matrix, bitch.
All proceeds will then be invested in a blanket IRA account for anyone that's ever owned a Ned's Atomic Dustbin album.
www.yourscenesucks.com
