Mine would be.
Roasted vegetables, courgettes and artichokes, peppers tomatoes and that in olive oil.
Roast potatoes with Monkfish.
Then some ravioli.
then any type of cinnamon cake,
A nice big latte coffee,
Big Banana milkshake,
And some bottles of Peroni…But the prison chef would probably tell me to piss off.
“Bands are like Bread…You can cover the bread with many different spreads to make it taste different.
Electronic acts, Dj’s & other muscians are like sweets and soups….But you always need bread….You can even dip the bread in the soup…”—Ye Mate 2009
So we bed down now with desperate straws for roots, pulling up some putrid fiver-an-hour milkshake - sweating on supplies from an imaginary delivery. This is life as a 2008 University graduate, finding pockets of unbridled joy in stolen minutes with like-minds and half-baked concepts. I bed down in purgatory - knowing matters can’t improve before regression: I am frozen in time with the few unlucky others with foresight, riding it out, biding our time before striking. We feel pity for those without this spirit crushing burden of insight. We temporarily long for their optimism, for their short-sightedness, for their gears, their logic, their strength. We are new for our newness - younger than those who’ve been here before; hardened with exposure to the warnings of past generations. We are victims of a silent reigime, oppressed casually with a sudden and glaring lack of opportunity. We’ve been lied to… stop me if you’ve heard this one before.
History will recognise us as a lost generation and the indentification will be a shallow and momentary comfort: but FUCK! This is my youth! I can’t wait for 20 years for a man half my age to tap me on the shoulder and tell me my life was hard. Why should we have to hang for the mistakes of people who don’t know our names? Why should we bother paying into a society that has forgotten us? We spend childhoods safe in the knowledge that someone older and wiser than us always has a contingency plan in place for times of hardship, that someone is at the wheel. We trust our parents to protect us in our homes, to provide for us, to reassure us against our irrational fears. What do we do when our parents, our elders have run out of answers? Why do I get the feeling there is no contingency plan this time, that the world is operating on guess-work alone? That we’re treading in our elder’s piss-stained waters?
“Bad timing”, they say. “Life isn’t fair”. Well then, don’t raise me. Don’t feed me. Don’t care for me. Tell me it’s survival, not life and be done with it. Rather that, than this. Make me an idiot, give me gears, give me logic, give me productivity, give me optimism, give me strength, give me hope - I have no use for what I have. Read this in 20 years and tap me on the shoulder. See what happens.