20nothing.com

If writing fails, I am going to open a vintage clothing store. That way, I will still remain in the business of regenerating other people’s ideas, but I will have cash flow to show for it.
“This place is like a hipsters wet dream,” I told my girl friend at a music festival as I watched people my age float past me looking like they had raided my Nanna’s wardrobe and then put on a pair of Wayfarers and Hightops. “Everyone looks the same.”
And I mean everyone. It is interesting that fashion has bridged the gap between generations and now an eighteen-year-old is indiscernible to an eighty-year-old.

A few years ago, I was in Byron Bay, getting dressed behind my parental-purchased convertible, when two hippies walked up to their Kombie van and entered it via keyless entry. After I had peeled myself up off the concrete from laughter so uncontrollable that a little pee came out, I asked the driver if he had shattered the illusion of anti-materialism just to make my day.
“It is easier to get in the car this way,” was all He offered as a response.
A little more pee came out.

Generation Y is all about Instant Gratification. I blame, you know, society. While our parents had to put in the hard work by writing things down on paper until computers where compacted down to a size capable of fitting into an entire lounge room, My generation has an iPhone that can tell the weather while we read Dlisted.com and screen calls. MTV doesn’t have a single shot that lasts longer than twenty-four frames. Gyms play infomercials on television screens that sell Three-Minute Ab Workouts. And hippies are too lazy to wait for a key to turn in the lock of a car door.
Though often attributed to greed, my dad tried to teach me patience by quoting, “You can’t have your cake and eat it to.”
The lesson failed miserably because, beyond cake being my favourite food group, I always wondered what the Hell the point was in having cake if you can’t eat it[?].
“What am I supposed to do? Just look at it?”
“Back in my day, we didn’t even have cake,” RG pressed-on, channelling determination that could only be possessed by someone compiled in a group of people known as The Baby Boomers.
I threatened to throw the cake at him, thus killing two birds with one stone, but, alas, he vetoed that idea also.

I can’t wait to be eighty-years-old, sitting in my rocking chair, dressed in hot pants, holding a shotgun and a scotch, shooting at all the kids passing by while I relax back into a quiet confidence of finally understanding Life. If I compare the Me Of Today to the Me Of This Time Last Year, the characters are almost as unrecognisable as teens at a concert. The clarity acquired in just twelve months excites me to continue the quest of what the next seven hundred and twenty will bring.
One year ago, the hipsters and I attended the same music festival. While thousands of people where moving to the beat, I was walking to a beat of my own and endlessly uncomfortable in doing so. I had been so shattered by a broken heart and felt so unsure of every decision I made, every feeling I felt and every breath I took that I wanted something to instantly take the pain away and make life better. Every time someone older told me that I had to be patient and learn some lessons, I felt like a failure.
“I can’t wait,” I insisted. “I need to feel different now.”

On a superficial level, no matter what the outfit, everyone is the same on the outside. Even under the first surface, humans are indiscernible to the naked eye. But taking the time to actually get to know someone, however long that may take, separates ignorance and arrogance, and creates a feeling of gratification that is earned and deserved. Judgement and treating everyone the same is eradicated, as knowing Who they are warrants an individual response. My heartbreak of yesteryear stopped me from investigating the differences in people, out of fear that They would all end up being the same as Him. But little by little, my curiosity was regenerated and the trepidation became vintage. Beyond that, investigation into ones own self is the ultimate gratification and something that can only be completed with the patience to wait a lifetime.

Standing in line at the music festival bathroom, wondering what the Hell my Nanna was wearing and hoping she at least had a blanket to keep her warm from the winter chill, I was let into the Porta-Potty by a girl wearing the same shirt as me. I instantly felt hip until I sat down and noticed that I had spent the entire day with my underpants on back-the-front.
I laughed so hard a little pee come out.