PARENTS MEAN WELL. I mean, they birthed us, right? If it wasn’t for their once sharing a bottle of Baby Duck and not being able to afford a condom, you wouldn’t even be here. Most of them mean well, even if for much of our lives we don’t understand their ways. What’s more is that we don’t understand their affections. Black socks and sandals. Branson, Missouri. kd lang. But we love them, right? And their affections are theirs.
Many media outlets have recently reported that your parents’ love of Facebook has ruined the social media behemoth for you. A whole generation is scaling back their online presence as a result of parental spying, and being forced to share their virtual space with moms and dads. And while we love sharing online, sharing with the people who went into deep debt re-mortgaging their home to pay for your undergraduate degree in Sports Poetry from Sarah Lawrence is something untenable.
But it’s not over, Headshotters. Let us be the first to warn you of the other things you love that your folks are going to take from you.
Having already ruined Facebook for you, your parents’ next step is to ruin Twitter. Once they figure out @s and hashtagging, your good times are over. Harder to filter out unwanted followers and easier to bask in anonymity, this last bastion of social media freedom (except Pinterest. Are the kids still on the Pinterest? Is it still a thing? I don’t get it. Is it just for knitting pictures?) is in danger of parental supervision. Hopefully, Amanda Bynes’ parents are first. What is wrong with that girl? What is wrong with her vagina?
You’re next, Tumblr.
One of the great rights of passage for any young person is that ever-exciting and dangerous introduction to alcohol.
Unfettered false confidence, unfiltered opinion, the ability to dance and woo, all new and wonderful experience for any PERSONS 21 YEARS OLD AND OVER. There is a brief window here, before light beer hangovers and your first divorce, where alcohol is the great equalizer, a step towards adulthood with one foot still in adolescence.
That is, of course, until your folks start sharing drinks with you, and you see your future: Drunk, unfunny, dancing to Prince, and sharing your most precious dark secrets with your new boyfriends. Enjoy it while you can, Headshotters. That first bottle of rum with mum is gonna grow you up real fast!
Youth is the one time in our lives where indiscretions are not just allowed, but encouraged. Once you’re able to find another person or three to engage in intercourse with you, the world becomes a delightful reverie of bliss and wonder. For a while, before marriage, kids, and Las Vegas, sex is a beautiful experience, a new world of discovery. It’s like being Columbus, but without killing Indians!
That is until you walk in on your dad and your new new mom frolicking on a sex swing they’ve constructed in your old bedroom, a bedroom filled with Viagra, lube, and German pornography. What was once wonder, will quickly fade to something only a licensed therapist can get you interested in again. If you can’t afford a therapist, please consult our Ask TSJ column. No video, please.
Nothing ruins a Breaking Bad marathon weekend faster than finding out that it’s your dad’s favorite show. We’re not sure why, but there is some chemical trigger in the brain that enacts when something we love is found out to be loved by a parent: The aforementioned sex swing, Words with Friends, and renting a hotel room for some time alone.
We here at Headshots recommend keeping your viewing habits secret until your 30s, and avoid visiting your parents during Mad Men. Headshots’ favorite show was How I Met Your Mother until it was discovered that our own mother was a well-known poster in several HIMYM online forums. Suddenly, Ted seemed like a douche and Robin Sparkles sparkled no more.
Music is what separates us from the animals. Except the dolphins, but they only like instrumentals and John Mayer. Music, from a young age, replaces emotion and fosters understanding. It tells us that other people hurt, and hope, and hate, and tubthump. It teaches us to love, and to be loved. But nothing kills an affection for music like your parents cranking Josh Groban in the Audi with the windows down, chugging Venti low-fat lattes, and grooving like 15-year-olds. Parents are to music as gentrification is to Brooklyn, an inevitability that will eventually push out the cool and replace it with Jack Johnson.
These deaths can be avoided, dear Headshotters. Best to cut your parents off for your 20s. Oh, sure, you’ll be poor and lonely and unwashed, but you’ll still be able to love up on somebody after a few rum and Four Locos while listening to the Justified soundtrack and tweeting about it. Until your 30s—when life turns to suck anyway.
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