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misterparadigm · 2 years

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The Millennial Existential Debt

It's been observed statistically that crime doesn't happen in areas of poverty alone, but in areas where poverty and wealth live in closest proximity to each other. The internet has collapsed the globe so that these two extremes are always imminently apparent to each other.

Before the rise of the internet and the campaign to get everyone into the university, people were often leaving high school and entering the real world around the age of 18. The world could be taken in smaller bites back then. The breadth of it wasn’t at the individual’s fingertips, so audaciously and imminently in their faces, as it is now with the ubiquity of the internet. When a student left high school, their world was their community and any zone of the world they’d visited or wished to visit. They were aware of the rest of the world, but it didn’t have the immediate presence it has now. That made life conceptually manageable. We could more easily imagine ourselves as greatly successful in that more compact model of the world—and we could be satisfied with that more limited success. But with the internet, these smaller communities and models of the world have been destroyed. The world is big and right in front of you, always. Success in the community no longer feels as significant, because now it is the world which is the community.

People are kept in the education community much longer than they once were. They’re kept in that protective atmosphere, then they’re kicked out of the educational institution and directly into the whole world--not just their towns or states or communities--where wages have stagnated compared to the cost of living and they’re starting “real life” with a student loan debt that will haunt them for decades, or perhaps their entire lives. We’re nursing them into adulthood at a high cost to their futures, then introducing them into life at its greatest resolution--dropping them into the existential cosmos with a financial boulder strapped to their backs and telling them to sink or swim.

It's not terribly surprising that Millennials are disillusioned and debilitatingly anxious.

#society #psychology #sociology #education #existentialism #finance #existential dread #anxiety #culture #millennials #millennial #millennial existential debt #existential debt #crime #poverty #wealth

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womanlovingwerewolf · 1 year

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starting off the new year with the feeling that the climax of my ongoing identity crisis is approaching

#help #personal #blogging through the pain #lmao #existential dread #identity crisis #not to be a millennial but i sure am 26

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irlactualhuman · 7 months

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[This user doesn't have the vocabulary to adequately express their existential dread and immense frustration with dating as a trans woman. She uses the cute little kitty face as a placeholder for pertinent vernacular. She might also be ravenously horny, 'eepy', or in a mischievous mood. Context is key to understanding the millennial trans woman in her natural environment (Tumblr). If no context is present, approach with caution.]

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johnwickb1tsch · 17 days

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Vino Veritas

A Destination Wedding Frank x Fem!Reader Fic

Attending the wedding of your ex-fiancé gets slightly better when you meet someone having just as miserable a time as you... Warnings: Nothing too serious holy shit. Cursing. Broken engagement. Nihilism, existential bullshit, copious amounts of sarcasm. Eventual nsfw, not this chapter. Angst. Grump/sunshine trope. Loosely based on the movie but I'm not that smart. Or bitter. chapter map.

The Gate to Hell

You’re not sure what it is about airports, that somehow makes them feel like a special little extension of the circles of Hell. Or maybe purgatory, is more the like. All you do there is wait, and wait and wait, praying that soon it will be time to move on.

It probably doesn’t help that you’re absolutely fucking dreading your destination ahead.

Frankly, it will be a miracle if you survive this weekend with your sanity intact.

And then, there’s this dude behind you. You keep seeing him out of the corner of your eye. He just keeps pacing back and forth, rolling his stupid bag with him, and you just want to whirl and tell him to be still or sit the fuck down.

Instead, he comes to stand next to you.

You give him a glance. And then, you’ll admit, a double take, because he is stupidly handsome, even while frowning, staring churlishly at the flight monitor as though it had personally insulted him. And, to add insult to injury, he is tall. And well dressed in jeans and a button down and a nice sports jacket. And you inwardly sigh for some indefinable reason that has to do with longing and your acceptance that the universe does not bestow such gifts upon you for free.

“Nice dress.”

You blink, not having expected him to speak to you.

“Thanks.” It’s a 50’s style robin’s egg blue halter swing dress, your favorite color. You needed some bright color therapy, to face the hell you’re about to be stepping into.

“Is there a sock hop in San Luis Obispo I’m missing?”

You guess with your cat-eye Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses, you do look rather on brand.

From his sardonic tone you’re not sure if he’s making fun of you. “All the cool kids are going.”

You kind of deliver it like a dig, and you see the corners of his mouth twitch. “Ah. That explains everything.”

You look him over. He…really is ridiculously handsome, if you’re being honest. High cheekbones. Trimmed beard. Piercing eyes. Casually well dressed. A bit older than you, not that that’s ever stopped you.

“I hope our flight’s on time.”

You check your phone app for the airline. “Supposed to be.”

“Let me guess. You’ve got an app for that?” The way he says it, just this side of snide, like you fucking millennials—it kind of pisses you off. And maybe you’re overly sensitive to patronizing comments from older men, but with your history you have a right to be.

“Do you have a problem with me?”

He stands up a little straighter. “What?”

“Like what’s your deal? I was just standing here minding my own business, while you’re creeping around behind me—”

“I was not creeping. I was trying to see the board.” He gestures at the display screen by the gate.

You look him up and down. That’s a tall drink of water, if you’re being honest. “Because Mr. six foot six over here can’t see over my head—”

“I’m only 6’1”—”

“Okay, 6’2” in your shoes, and then you come up here, give me a backhanded compliment, and make fun of me for having the means to keep track of what’s going on with our plane?” You glare at him. “Holy shit, are you trying to neg me?”

“I don’t…even know what that means.”

“Ok, boomer.”

“I am not a boomer.”

“Whatever.”

Then he has the gall to step away—in front of you.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’re going to butt ahead in line too?”

“On a flight that holds eight people?”

“Wow. Ok, be my guest.” You wave him on, and he rolls his eyes. Then you have to stand there, and look at his stupidly broad shoulders in that nice sports jacket, and his dark softy waving hair that just brushes his collar…you’re not going to look at his butt.

You’re not.

Your eyes slide down.

Fuck, but that’s a nice caboose.

The Fight Or Flight Response

As you sit in your backseat of the plane, there is one seat left beside you, and when you see who boards last you want to throw yourself down the stairs before they close the door.

“Anyone want to trade seats?” he asks, bent over practically in half, he’s so tall and the plane is so small.

Crickets.

With a resigned grumble he settles into the seat next to you, as though the world might end if he has to spend a handful of minutes in your general proximity.

Then, of course, the universe further conspires to embarrass you by sending you a defective peanuts bag, which you cannot for love or money get to tear open.

“Dear god, tear it at the notch,” grouses the rude man beside you, driven insane by you fighting with it.

“There is no notch.”

He’s there with his big hand extended, making an annoyed give it here gesture. It’s distracting, truly, how long and elegant his fingers are.

“Give it here.”

“I’m fine.”

“Give. It. Here.”

You’re so disgusted with this whole day, you hand it over. Then watch with smug delight as he can’t get it open either. Finally, he uses his teeth in his frustration, undoubtedly spitting all over it. When he tries to hand it back to you, you raise an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

With a sigh, he offers you his less molested bag.

You take it like accepting his sword on the battlefield.

You both make faces as you quickly find that the seasoning on the nuts tastes like hot trash, and you reckon it’s probably a metaphor for how the next few days are going to go.

This is going to be the weekend from hell.

“So what brings you to San Luis Obispo?” the man asks resignedly, almost like he can’t quite stop himself from talking to you. There is an exhaustion in his tone that would have pulled at your heartstrings, if you weren’t so generally pissed off.

“You don’t have to try to talk to me.”

He shrugs, throwing up those big, beautiful hands in a gesture of annoyance. You can’t help but stare at them—they really are a menace.

“Just trying to be pleasant.”

You can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes you at hearing that. He frowns over at you, and you cover your mouth, hiding your smile. You know you must look like a crazy person—but it’s just too ridiculous.

“Was it that funny?”

You sigh, and for some reason you feel better after the involuntary outburst. Okay. Maybe you can make an effort. No one is ever in a good mood at the airport, after all. “I’m actually going to Paso Robles.”

“Row-bulls.”

“It’s pronounces ro-blays.”

“Everyone says Row-bulls.”

“Well, not the fucking Spanish who named it.”

He looks away again with that thunderhead of a frown. Why does he have to look extra handsome, when he’s pissed off?

You sigh again. “Look, I’m sorry. I swear, I’m not always such a bitch. It’s just…this fucking wedding I’m going to.”

This catches his attention; he turns to look at you like a hawk zeroing in on a mouse. “Not…Keith and Anne’s wedding?”

“How do you fucking know Keith and Anne?”

“Keith and I share a mother.”

“Holy shit, you’re Frank?”

“Who are you?”

“I was engaged to Keith, years ago.”

“Oh my god, you’re y/n.”

You can sense by the way he says it that you’re infamous in the family’s lore. It’s been a long time, but still, it fills your heart with a familiar leaden despair.

You close your eyes, and look away.

“You’re just as horrible as Keith always said,” you say to the window.

“I find you equally disagreeable, I assure you.”

waiting for death the car

“There was supposed to be a car,” Frank grouses the second you exit the airport. Patience is clearly not his strong suit.

“The flight was early.”

“But it seemed so long.”

It’s a good dig, truth be told, and the corners of your mouth twitch despite yourself. You sit down on a bench, and to your surprise he sits on the other, though on the side closest to you. “So what the hell are you doing here?” he asks. “Didn’t Keith break your heart?”

“Shattered it into bits.”

“Well?”

“I was invited.”

“And…you’re a masochist?”

“Look, I’m not…whatever Keith must have said I am. I was practically a fucking child when he started dating me. It was not…” It was perfectly legal, of course, but the imbalance of worldly experience, looking back, had not been kosher.

You feel the tide of all the pain and insecurity that man caused you raise up in your heart. Usually you’re pretty good at shoving that shit down down in the deepest dungeon you can, like a healthy person, but the wound is feeling a little fucking raw at the moment, considering.

“Keith is an asshole who only cares about himself. I am aware.”

You sigh, and the tide miraculously recedes. Goddamn. It almost feels like he’s on your side. “Okay, yeah. There you go.”

“Why do this to yourself?”

“You know, before he broke it off, we had a fight the night before because I told him I would never get breast implants, of all fucking things, and Keith told me I would never amount to anything without him.”

“Sounds like something asinine he would say.”

“I wanted to go back to school, and he didn’t like it. He wanted a Stepford wife, and I was becoming alarmingly aware of the world outside his own making of it, the way children do when they grow up. If you’re wondering why he dumped me.”

“That tracks perfectly.”

“He invited me to be a shit and rub my nose in it, so…I’m here as a fuck you. I wanted to show him I’m doing fine.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, actually.”

“You do seem rather well adjusted.”

“Yeah, fuck you too.”

This, surprisingly, makes him smile a little.

A few moments of slightly less awkward silence pass before he asks, “So what did Keith tell you about me?”

“Oh, he told me plenty.”

“Such as?”

“What does it matter?”

“Don’t do that,” he snipes. “Don’t dangle the tidbit then refuse to deliver it.”

“Fine. He said you’re a grouch who hates everyone.”

“Oh. I was afraid he might have said something untrue.”

You glance over at his ridiculously well-sculpted profile. He glares ahead, his brows furrowed, and you strangely get the sense that maybe…he’s a little sad for it.

At fucking last, the shuttle car from the hotel arrives.

Tbc...

#destination wedding #keanuverse fic #frank x you #frank has no last name!#destination wedding frank x you #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves x reader #destination wedding fic #vino veritas destination wedding fic #part 1 #i think there will be maybe 5 parts?#frank x reader #frank x y/n #keanu reeves #enemies to lovers #sunshine x grump #frank reeves x you #frank reeves x reader

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fortunatetragedy · 2 months

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writeblr intro 2.2

hello! welcome to blog!

who i am

a gender-apathetic homosexual "elder millennial" with one (1) bachelor's degree who types faster than they think and is a good illustration of the "childhood trauma to self-deprecating writer with a substance problem" pipeline.

between 2017 and 2021 i published fiction in the dark fantasy and horror genres under a pen name. i left social media in 2021. other than lurking on pinterest and rejoining tumblr that hasn't changed.

i live with adhd, anxiety, and chronic pain in the form of cervical spine stenosis and trigeminal neuralgia. i am considered disabled.

where i'm from

i am an air force brat. i've lived several places, but i don't have a hometown.

as of june 2023 i live in oklahoma. that move inspired me to write a novel about human suffering, true love, and time loops.

what i write

my big project has the working title DOOM METAL LOVE STORY.

a weird western trilogy set in the 1870s, it follows a cavalryman and his outlaw lover as they escape a time loop to stop a delusional man from summoning an apocalyptic god-spirit.

book 1 | status: complete revising, 167.5k words (2024/3) playlist/chapter list here character intros: [x] cole sullivan [x] arthur royston [x] erik hofer

book 2 | status: in progress, 38.5k words (2024/6) book 3 | status: slowly becoming an outline

you can find DMLS posted in installments on AO3 every monday.

i am drafting:

THE CAVE DIVE, which is exactly what it sounds like: a group of young people end up literally out of their depths on a cave dive they shouldn't have been on in the first place. | status: in progress, 2,000 words [2024/6]

also on AO3:

a living machine [m:ta] is the story of a child prodigy/son of ether who grows up to become a mad scientist. | status: in progress, 24.3k words (2024/5)

among the elements [m:ta] is a shitpost of a short story i wrote about my player character's NPC father, khalid, aka the mad scientist from ALM. he grows a baby in an incubator and has to hide it in his guts to keep it safe. it sounds weird. it is weird. don't be scared. | status: complete (10.9k words)

finally, i am planning the following:

a story about RIVAL VAMPIRE ASTRONOMERS - exactly what it says on the tin

content warnings: in general, you're going to find

violence, blood/gore, sex [DMLS]

violence, blood/gore, body horror [ALM]

blood/gore, thalassophobia, claustrophobia [UNHS]

violence, blood/gore, vampire sex [RVA]

themes: futility, metafiction, existential dread/horror, making one's own purpose, chaos vs. order

neuroqueer characters who have to earn their happy ending

like infodumps? i have that too.

final warning

if we're mutuals i'm going to get obnoxiously excited about your projects and characters because fiction rules and so do you.

#writeblr #writeblr intro #writers on tumblr #caffeine-addled maniacs #queer writers #i haven't known what the hell i've been doing since 1984 and i'm not about to start now

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notes-from-sarah · 11 months

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Barbenheimer is a perfect millennial double feature because Barbie is an escapist fantasy that appeals to our nostalgia and our childlike fantasies that right exists in the world and can be both fought for and won while Oppenheimer is a reflection of our current existential dread at the knowledge that we are architects of both our own destruction and the destruction of the planet and we are powerless to stop it.

#barbie #oppenheimer #barbenheimer

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terrence-silver · 6 months

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What do you think Terry's idea of "rock bottom" is? Like we know Dynatox was doing some shady deals, and Terry was paying people off to cover his tracks all willy nilly. But do we think he actually lost all of his money? Or was his version of rock bottom moving out of the Ennis house to a more "humble" appearing mansion?

---

I think his definition of rock bottom is the World changing.

The dissonance of values.

The depression that came with.

Now, stay with me on this one. Could be fakedeep, but I truly believe this:

No, I don't think Terry Silver was ever here struggling to pay bills, buy groceries on a discount and make rent like an average Joe Schmoe; that's not the type of struggle he meant, I feel. Don't figure this is something that ever happened to him. It's just not that realistic. 🤷‍♀️

Terry Silver's 'rock bottom' is more of the deeply existential sort.

A sort of dread you can't shake off or control. The same way many people miss the 2010's. Or the 90's. Or the 70's. Or whatever period in their life was meaningful, important or deeply impactful. This sense that time is ever changing and it cannot be stopped or contained; that maybe the best days of your life are already behind you and they're never coming back. The melancholy and fear that comes with it; this is, actually, a re-occurring theme for several characters in the show (Johnny Lawrence, anyone?) And we all know that if Terry loathes one thing it is not having control over things. Passage of time being chief among them. In his own words vaguely paraphrased; you can buy back everything but your youth...or something like that, don't quote me.

That's what Terry was plagued with when he told John he 'hit rock bottom'.

Sure, he lost an unimaginable sum of money due to various fiscal crashes and had, effectively, for a while, less zeroes attached to his already immense networth which he for sure could've considered a state of decline compared to what he used to have, living quite literally overlooking all of Los Angeles like a sort of self-proclaimed Emperor, but the fact that the morals and the ethics of 1970-80's America which birthed The Terry We Know became so very different at the turn of the millennia that he might've felt that the economic boom and the very values that underlined a prime in his life were now over and that he, along with them, would either change, shed skins, or be over as well was what led Terry to sense that he had to begin again, from rock bottom, reinventing himself.

It was an end of an era.

First thing he had to do, is change mansions.

He couldn't just live in an unsustainable concrete brutalist castle anymore without people rightfully considering him bad for it...or telling him he should house some homeless people in there since he clearly has ample space. He needed to make a shift to something acceptable. Something digestible. He needed to box himself in.

No, he couldn't just slam coke, be driven around in a Rolls Royce, drop around racial slurs, make a living off of literally polluting places, lounging naked in front of his elderly secretary in a hot tub without facing some serious allegations later and coming dangerously close to what would be considered grooming today either. Those days were over. The days in which Cobra Kai as an upper crust extracurricular boy's club was considered aspirational and cool leading to a post-millennial pipeline where most people would consider it a militant cult was the new norm. The days in which you could send your friend to an all-expense paid trip to Tahiti to be entertained by two masseuses without both you and your friend being promptly branded sex tourists were gone too.

Martial arts were at their height in the 60's-80's, but by the time we're reintroduced to Terry at his garden party, it's a relic of the past people laugh and cringe at at best and bring up as a quirky joke. Hey, even his ponytail would just promptly be laughed at because men's fashion changed too; what was badass then ain't so badass now.

Everything changed.

It's like everything that made Terry Terry was just...finished. Passe.

In a sense, Daniel Larusso's lines proved to be prophetic:

Terry Silver wasn't even a memory anymore.

Yuppie culture was dead and Terry Silver was so intrinsically tied to this culture that I do believe he suffered what we would consider a mental breakdown due to it, the same way I believe he was facing so many lawsuits, indictments, scandals and legal issues thanks to his accumulated less-than-stellar behaviors and dealings in the past few decades that he would either 'clean up' his act or suffer the consequences. Become one of those creepy Billionaires shunned from society entirely. It would be social suicide. And I do believe Terry Silver had many, many, many skeletons in his closet. So many in fact, that him going to therapy, letting go of narcotics, quitting smoking, presenting himself as mellow, not really talking about his time in Vietnam (whereas, in the 80's, he's out there, openly saluting John at an airport) and ultimately surrounding himself by a veneer of Liberal upper class 'acceptable rich diverse people' was legitimately needed to hide himself. Even the way he dressed was different; he appeared less like a Bond villain and more like an elegant, approachable old man on a sea-side porch, hair in his loose curls.

Presentation; it matters.

The man who knew how to dress up as 'poor' and even instructed his stylists to deliberately ruffle the collars of his 'working class attire' when tricking Daniel would understand this like an intricate science. Really, just think of celebrities in real life who were awful in the past and who tried to polish up their image with the advent of social media and the internet. Yeah. Just like that. That's exactly what happened to Terry Silver.

He was bad and he loved it, but he couldn't be bad anymore.

Everything that brought him joy was gone, a cancellable offense (for good reason too) something that would ruin his life and have him viewed in an unfavorable light and everything that was considered positive nowadays were things that didn't make him happy in the least bit. Not at all. He wasn't happy eating vegan screws in a vegetative, fake existence. He wasn't happy pretending therapy worked. He wasn't happy letting go of all the markers of insurmountable wealth to seem relatable; he earned that shit. He deserved to flaunt it! He wasn't happy discarding his vices. He wasn't happy dressing like a retired grandpa wearing khakis sadly counting lettuce leaves in his plate and in equal measure counting the days until he died as the last vestige of the 80's. He wasn't happy not mentioning Vietnam. Martial Arts. Cobra Kai. Not when that's his life. It is who he was. For better, or for worse. His rock bottom, was such, feeling he had to become a blank slate and start over in a great many ways; returning to everything he was was him recapturing the old glory days and having one last go at everything that ever sparked him joy. Better to burn out than fade away and all that jazz.

#terry silver #kk3 #cobra kai #character analysis #tw; values dissonance

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