Labeling generations has never worked for me. According to some faceless group, who I assume are located in a basement in St. Louis, Mo., eating their lunches out of vending machines, they have decided that I should be included in Generation X – those people born between 1965 and 1979.
My body believes I’m a baby boomer, but my brain says I am Generation Y. I’m very conscious of the groans I make when getting up off of the couch, while also thinking about how the Delta mobile app is so much better than United or American Airlines when it comes to usability and experience.
I fully understand how late in the day I can drink coffee without disrupting my sleep. Also, I use Bitmojis constantly. I listen to the “Pure Jazz” streaming radio station while writing my columns. Also, I think Miley Cyrus really didn’t do us any favors by releasing her new six-track album. We all know Britney Spears did roughly the same album with “In The Zone.” I don’t want Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper to get together. I do want to watch “Rizzoli & Isles” while falling asleep.
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