By Jessie Mitchell
I’ve been watching a lot of MTV lately, in the hopes of maybe understanding today’s youth. I just want to know – what is it with these kids and the need to “get fucked up?” I imagine these scenarios where they just sit around and one of them says, “Let’s get fucked up!” and the others just agree that’s exactly what they should do. The other day, while waiting in line at a gas station mini mart, I heard a young man say that he was, and I quote, “so ripped out of [his] mind.” His companions laughed and suggested both pizza (which I believe came out as, “Dude! PIZZA!”) and Super Smashbrothers. What is Super Smashbrothers? And why were they wasting their mellow at a mini mart when they could have been having an orgy while listening to Jefferson Airplane?
Is it a generational thing? When I was their age, everyone dropped acid. Personally, I was probably tripping 85% of the time. That’s an estimate, mind you. It’s difficult to recall exactly how much of the time I was doing it. Back then it was about peace and community. It was about free love. Women and acid. (Interesting side note: A lot of the acid I dropped was passed to me by women who wanted to take advantage of me. I never complained. Free love comes in many forms.) Kids these days are chugging cough syrup and sniffing permanent markers to get high. They’re taking prescription drugs. Ritalin and women? No. Two words: Free. Love. The love isn’t free if you’ve just chugged a bottle of Robitussen. You’ve got to work for it, because you smell like Robitussen. That’s another thing: LSD-inspired tattoos were always deep and meaningful – extensions of our conscious minds and souls. I am exasperated by kids these days, with “Hope” and “Faith” in a weird sort of medieval font going down their shins, across the backs of their necks. What does that mean? I know what it is. It’s all that Ritalin and Robitussen. It’s no good. No. Good.
“Getting fucked up” is what it’s all about now, and I guess I’m just too old to appreciate it. That’s fine. You kids have your Super Smashbrothers and your beer. I’m upset that I can’t buy Wite-Out anymore without ID. Life is short. If you can’t expand your conscious mind and hear colors and have hallucinogenic sex with lots of strangers, well, hey…
Jessie Mitchell is a freshman writing major. E-mail her at email@example.com.