I am NOT hip.

I am not hip. I know this. I’m not ashamed.

I don’t know what all the emojis mean. Nor do I really care.

I don’t use the word “woke,” nor do I call people “basic,” nor do I use the word “adult” as a verb.

I have no idea what Desus & Mero are talking about probably about 25% of the time.

I still firmly believe in punctuation. And capitalization.

I would rather spell out the entire words “as fuck.” And “motherfucker.”

I have no social media apps on my phone. And my phone sucks, by the way.

I did not watch Game of Thrones, nor am I particularly proud of having not watched it.

I don’t listen to Cardi B. Although I would, if someone played her for me. I also don’t listen to underground, lo-fi hip-hop. Although, I’d listen to that, too. If . . .

And, I don’t know, maybe that’s not even what the kids are listening to these days anymore. I don’t even need to know.

I’m still on Facebook, but not yet on Instagram.

I still have a hotmail address, and I do skim the MSN homepage when I log out of it.

I still like to wear “boot-cut” jeans. Because bell-bottoms by any name are fucking sweet!

I don’t go around loudly proclaiming myself to be a member of any particular generation. Although, I am well aware of what my generation is. We just don’t talk about that shit. Because it’s pointless. It accomplishes nothing. It’s just another stereotype.

I am not hip. And that’s okay. Because I couldn’t give two flying fucks about that.

And that’s the one beautiful thing about getting older, my children, and it’s the one thing they don’t tell you about when you’re young. Getting older means giving less and less and less of a flying fuck about any goddamn thing. Except the things that are really important. If you stop caring about those things, then you’re just an asshole.

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