Ode to Generation Z
With high shorts that barely cover their buttocks, they don’t walk, they saunter.
They scuff. They share. They selfie. They swag.
When something happens in their lives, or rather, when nothing happens, they’ll let you know. They’ll always let you know.
Some of them may not eat – to ensure they can fit into their jeggings and denim underwear (née shorts).
Uploading images of mocha frappachinos masked with a Valencia filter. Or was it Earlybird?
They’ll always let you know.
They are the iGeneration. The Instageneration. Hashtag IG nation.
They are the ‘like’-minded generation.
Some say they are the self-entitled generation.
They pose the question, does the moment even exist if it is not uploaded, shared, tweeted?
They’ll always let you know.
They never fall off the face of Cyberia, because they can’t.
Unless they’re out of range.
Cyberia perpetually sits in the palm of their hands.
With high shorts that barely cover their buttocks, they don’t talk, they tweet.
Like the Myki tickets they travel with to Melbourne Central, they will validate – but not without a bargain.
In return, they simply ask to be validated.
In return, they simply ask for a follow for a follow.
A like for a like.
They’ll always let you know.
I come in patronising peace from Generation Y.
