In which I go a bit ranty ...

I am not Generation Y.


I don’t have a Blackberry, or an IPhone. I have never worn high waisted jeans, leggings without anything on top, harem pants, or anything Lady Gaga might wear.


I don’t really know who Lady Gaga is. Or what her purpose is. I’m not sure she has one.


I Tweet, but I only Tweet with people who Write.


I hate Facebook.


I don’t get Myspace.


My friends are people I would die for, not people I would “poke”.


My life goal is not to be famous and buy a yacht. It is to be loved and buy some goats.


I don’t own bling.


I don’t have a dangly thing on my phone.


I don’t understand “random”. I laugh out loud all the time, but I have never ROFLMAO-ed (evidence – my “arse” is, currently, where it has always been, and not on the floor).


I get that, if people don’t put an emoticon in an email, it doesn’t necessarily mean they hate me.


Just because I do something does not mean I need to join a Facebook group about it.


I still want to be friends with people who don’t social network.


Doesn’t mean I hate people who do. Some of my best friends are as Y as they come.


But me?


I’m Gen Possum Magic; Gen Hairy Maclary; Gen There’s A Hippopotamus on My Roof Eating Cake; Gen Miffy; Gen Ramona; Gen Spot; Gen Butterfly’s Ball; Gen Anthony Browne; Gen Graeme Base; Gen Emily Rodda; even Gen Babysitter’s Club.


Later, I was Gen Garth Nix; Gen James Moloney; Gen Shaun Tan; Gen Tamora Pierce; Gen Isobelle Carmody; Gen Judy Blume; Gen Maureen McCarthy; Gen Melina Marchetta; Gen Terry Pratchett.


That’s the stuff I remember. That’s the stuff that lines my bookshelves in my tiny (non-McMansiony), townhouse. That’s what make me who I am. It might not be a one-letter catch-all, and it may not have functions and features and “applications” but, dammit, neither do human beings.