By Saint Dirty Face™

Gen X. 1965–1980. The lost middle child of history.

We didn’t get participation trophies—we got yelled at by chain-smoking coaches who told us to “walk it off” while our ankles were swelling like Macy’s Day floats.

Our birthday parties weren’t Pinterest-perfect affairs with balloon arches and gluten-free cake pops—they were at Pizza Hut. Red cups, greasy pan pizza, and the glorious Book-It! program bribing us to read with free slices. Gen X literacy? Sponsored by pepperoni.

And nobody asked about our “pronouns.” You were either the kid who could kick a ball into the neighbor’s window, or you were the kid who got hit by the ball. End of taxonomy.

But here’s the kicker. That wolf-eyed quote floating around said:

“It’s better to be a restrained monster than a well-behaved coward.”

Gen X lived that.

We grew up latchkey, alone with microwaves and Nintendo cartridges that required the sacred “blow ritual” to work. We learned to fight, joke, and keep our rage on a short leash. A monster in a denim jacket. Quiet, but dangerous.

Cowardice was never an option. You either stood your ground in the parking lot, or you went home with your tail tucked and your cassette tapes stolen. That’s why we aged like whiskey and scars—we’re restrained monsters who still know how to bare teeth when the world gets stupid.

So yeah, you can keep your foam trophies. You can keep your soy candles and identity workshops. Gen X? We’ll be over here, drinking cheap beer out of red plastic cups, watching the world burn, and laughing because we already told you it was rotting from the inside out.

Stay Dirty. Stay Rebellious™