, , , , , , , ,

Kids these days….I don’t get it.  It’s not often I think of myself as an old gal.  I’m now in my, deep breath, mid-to-late 30’s.  A new box to check on medical forms.  A whole new generation of drinkers behind me.   I bartend special events for my better half’s catering company.  I quickly did the math for carding people and when I realized folks born in 1991 can drink now, I felt faint.  The first time I officially felt old was when I quoted Reality Bites only to be met with open mouths and blank stares. 

I feel young-ish though.  I don’t have any kids.  Sunday Funday is alive and well.  I sometimes drink like I’m away from my parents for the first time at spring break in Panama City Beach circa 1994.  It’s nothing to be proud of but, in the interest of full disclosure, I just wanted to throw that out there to prove I can still get down.  But when I “get down” I don’t get up as quickly as I used to. 

Considering the wicked hip scenster that I am, I hear a lot of different music.  Also, considering the old coot that I can be, I have had to stop going to certain bars that I love because the DJ insists upon playing, deep breath, Dubstep.  Oh Dubstep.  My feelings towards this music  aural assault are as follows:

It sounds like dental work.

It makes me want to hit myself repeatedly in the face with track cleats.

I’d rather suck on a roll of pennies.

I’d rather listen to whales communicate.

I’d rather get drunk on $10 Budweisers and endure a Billy Ray Cyrus Achy Breaky Heart revival tour. 

I’d rather watch a Bad Girls Club marathon on a gorgeous Florida winter’s day.

I’d rather go to church on Sundays.

Dubstep is worse than this