Listen, nephew. Let
me be the first in a long line of tedious dickheads who tell you how good
you've got it.
We used to get the
Internet by post. You'd write in: ‘Hello Internet, I would like one eBay search
for vacuum cleaner, please’, whereupon it would take down your bank details and
mail you a printout sometime in the next 7-10 days.
Colour was extra,
which is why your parents ended up with such hideous furniture and appliances. That’s
also why you’re wearing bright pink in all your baby photos.
You don’t believe
me? Go on, ask your father. But he'll only back me up. I know too much. I can prove he once choreographed a dance routine to Elmer Fudd's cover of I'm
Too Sexy; I have photos of him wearing a velvet cape. Unironically. In his late 20s.
There’s only one way for this to go, and it’s going to take some willing
suspension of disbelief from at least one of us. From you.
Because that's
what older relatives do: we lie to you for fun.
We ran out of easy
revelations by the time we turned 23. After that, life got hard, we got bitter
and finally we got jealous of kids young enough to experience an occasional moment
of clarity and discovery.
Enjoy it while it
lasts.
Then, in a decade
or so, we'll team up to convince your cousin you were raised by wolves.
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