bushwick, baby.

Greetings, World. We are yr new caretakers—slip-sliding into slimey seats of power. Generation Next, fueled by stories and promises, romanticized beatnik bullshit and booze. The future was a “work hard and you’ll get somewhere” dream that we rode lazily back and forth like a half-pipe, gleaming the edges till we could see our faces reflected back at us as we got nowhere fast. We’re the children of the party generation, so we know how to getupgetup to get-get down. We’re the children that the hung-over hippies thought would make them happy in the 80s, ushering in a new era of blotto in the 90s brought on by too many pharmaceuticals and too much money…

Self medication radiation ruling the fast food nation.

Our parents have not aged well, despite their botox and their future shares or whatever it is they’ve squirreled away so they can live in a condo next to a golf course. They are reaping the fruit of “having it all”.

Generation Next knows that the world is a highway, with one lane going super fast and another stopping and starting, and another pitter-pattering along and another at a dead stop, littered with broken down, flaming cars and dying people.

Generation Next knows that the world is a highway, and every exit is The Last.

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