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Saint Dirty Face

Tag: #LatchkeyLegends

  • 🗝️ Latchkey, My Ass — We Just Called It Tuesday

    Robert

    By Saint Dirty Face™

    You ever notice how every generation after us turned our childhood into a psychological case study?

    “Latchkey kids. Early exposure to independence. Potential emotional ramifications…”

    Yeah, okay, Karen.

    We just called it life.

    I wasn’t sitting there at 8 years old contemplating attachment theory—I was heating up a burrito, watching cartoons, and knowing damn well Mom and Dad were out busting their asses so the lights stayed on. That wasn’t trauma. That was Tuesday.

    Gen X didn’t freak out about being alone.

    We understood the assignment:

    Parents gotta work? Cool. House empty? Even better. Microwave? My throne. Front door key on a shoelace necklace? Badge of honor.

    We didn’t need a village.

    We were the village.

    Just smaller, unsupervised, and fueled by sugary cereal.

    But here’s the twist—some kids did feel lonely. Others felt empowered.

    That’s the magic of our generation:

    we didn’t all experience it the same, but we all survived it anyway.

    Me? I never had an issue being alone.

    I knew my parents were out there doing what they had to do.

    That was love—Gen X style.

    Not coddling.

    Not bubble-wrapping.

    Just reality.

    And that reality forged us into the most self-reliant, least-whiny bunch of humans to ever roam Earth.

    We grew up with keys around our necks and chips on our shoulders—and somehow turned out just fine.

    Well… mostly.

    We’ve got a little dark humor, a little edge, and the wisdom to know exactly when to say:

    “Stay dirty. Stay human. Stay Gen X.”

    — Saint Dirty Face™

    Cracked halo. Full attitude. Still knows how to microwave a burrito like a champ.

  • Monsters, Pizza Huts, and Pronouns

    Robert

    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™