I've never owned a mobile phone. So far, have never regretted it. But it does mean that I'm a complete ignoramus on things like Tweets and all things phonimous.
LOL Hilarious.. so ok I'll bite.. yes poor us... thank goodness we have all you young people to teach us stuff and to save the world :P lol that was sarcasm..I love young people.. i was one once.. I remember it well I was arrogant and thought i knew it all .. now I KNOW i didnt.. bless you you will learn one day too..
BTW how old are you? I very much doubt that unless you are 15 or something you are that young and be careful that older age is rushing upon you too :P
Human nature does not change. We oldies do not forget how it felt to be young, with boundless energy, full of hormones, hope, and endless dramas caused by not understanding what we were doing. The fashions change, the music, the technology, and the lingo... but that's all. Superficial differences. Sexual mores fluctuate through epochs from puritanical to libertine and back again - and all that actually changes is how open people are about the same old, same old stories of centuries. We think we are unique and new - but we are as different as leaves on a tree.
One day, circa 2000, I was in a café near Sydney University when three gorgeous young things wandered in. They had lean, willowy figures with pert, up-pointing breasts and flawlessly smooth-skinned faces, eyes glistening like sunlight on dew. They walked in rhythm, but oddly, due to three-inch high platform soles, with flared trousers that flapped around shapely calves. I remembered wearing those in the '70's. I remembered they made escape impossible if you got in a sticky situation. The colours of their clothes were day-glo. That meant 100% nylon and synthetics because natural fibers won't take it. That meant their sweat would stink if they got too close. Their bare midrifs sported silver rings and jewels in the navels, hips swinging. One had rings through her lips and tongue, and Celtic tats 'round her biceps. Their long hair was dyed to match the clothes, first bleached into straw, then neon streaks of lime, hot pink, violet and orange, glowing, phosphorescent. Psychedelic, we called it, back in the sixties, the luminescence that only artificial dyes could create, or acid trips. MP3 players hung around their necks, plugged into their ears with thin wires. They bounced in, in time to the music, "I'm Outa Love," by Anastacia. I thought maybe they were dressed for a party. I smiled and called out a compliment, "Nice fancy dress!" One of them lanced me with a death stare. "What fancy dress? Where?" "Sorry," I said lamely. And buried my eyes back in my book.
This post was edited by Benedict Arnold at November 22, 2016 2:27 AM MST