As a young millennial, I’m accustomed to having reasonable expectations placed on me that I’ll probably eventually, maybe, live up to, but not right away.
I didn’t hit my first significant adult growth spurt until I was around 17. On the first night that I had my driver’s license in hand — a glorious moment of teenage freedom — I got into an accident after haphazardly backing out of a local hot dog joint’s parking lot to head to the McDonald’s next door. I could’ve simply, you know, walked over rather than taken the hit to my parent’s insurance. (I’m almost proud of that as a badge of honor, honestly.) Following a lot of hand-wringing (and general laziness), I took until the late spring of my senior year of high school to pick a college to attend.
If you think about my upbringing long and hard, I’m probably the darling of every cushy national columnist who is out of ideas. I am the poster child for folks who still center my generation as the core of all modern problems in syndication. Thank you, John Fitzhammersimmons, but I don’t do interviews.
