you should start threatening to ’KYS’ at the slightest inconvenience.

It’s 2:44 PM on Friday, April 11th, and I’m scrolling through Twitter. Twitter and I have been having an on-and-off relationship for the past five years. Usually, she’d be the one to set boundaries and I’d be the one to do the blocking. But it had been a while since I had been back, and at this stage, I had built a bridge, Instagram, and gotten OVER IT!

On this particular day, Montana had tweeted: “The way this lady spoke to me at work this morning has irritated me so bad I actually cannot stop thinking about it.”

And neither could I! For the past three years, my greatest foe has been — consistently — born between 1946–1980. Generation X. Of course, it goes without saying that lately — the past two to three months — I had been particularly butthurt by anyone born in that generation. So I can’t say I’m writing this without slight malice in my heart.

Like BROTHER! You can literally feel the essence of life being sucked from your body. I could LITERALLY feel the essence being sucked out of my body.

Listen, I would never jump to conclusions, but if a boat is sinking and the life raft is below, would you not jump? So sure, I hadn’t thought to venture out and ask Montana what the deal was. But what I do know is that some born between 1990 to 2000 would never refer to someone who is ALSO born between 1990–2000 as “lady.” And so obviously, being the empath that I am, I immediately knew that Montana was going through it with someone who potentially was the same age as my mother.

The first time I tussled with a Gen X veteran was when I worked at JB HI-FI.

“John” was a. LIVING. BREATHING. VIBE. TERRORIST.

God forbid you caught a vibe with the girls, because here comes John the Jailer, coming to lock up your joy and happiness. My relationship with John was amicable at best, tense at most times. He was older by a decade and a bit — maybe like 15 to 17 years, but no more than 20 — from North Queensland, and his keen interests were — at the time — Peking Duck, Thailand, Drake?, the Australian Open. He liked espressos with a shot of milk in the morning and an iced coffee around 11:30 AM. He spoke a lot about the Philippines and was trying to grow out his beard for Movember. He made a joke one summer about running a half marathon and the next summer he ran a half marathon. He liked beers but he didn’t like going to the pub. He lived in the South East but would frequent Fitzroy because “it just feels like a bit more me.” He still went to Revs but didn’t go to Breakfast Club anymore. He adopted a Blue Heeler but he lived in an apartment. He wanted to be a regional manager and thought the move from Queensland to Victoria proved his “brand loyalty.” His wife was quiet, she washed his clothes and made his lunch, and he wore glasses.

When we initially met, the facade of youth had blinded me. He looked young, he seemed relatable, and he acted as if he really could understand us. The problem was “John” also tried to have his hands in both baskets — friend AND manager.

This is what happened.

It had been the early to mid-days of COVID, and the store had begun to operate as a warehouse. I served as an Online Coordinator. For a brief moment in time, I had been viewed as an essential part of the store, but things had started to turn. There was some type of argument, or incident, or something — really at that point it was just pent-up emotion from different Team Members.

So it wasn’t JUST me. Look, long story short, if I were to answer you honestly, I think we were all losing our minds and projecting.

At this time, I had received a promotion, which essentially meant the same job but in Head Office. I wasn’t necessarily interested in pursuing a career at JB HI-FI, but what I was interested in was making “John’s” life as inconvenient as possible. I wasn’t going to do anything crazy, certainly nothing weird, but a couple of incidents of — what I would argue is — weaponized incompetence on my behalf ensured that every waking moment he had to correspond with Head Office, he would’ve had to climb the mountain to reach the peak.

I learnt something very valuable about language and communication. And what I learnt was the phrase “And what if I just killed myself?” is the strongest weapon formed against anyone aged 44 to 59.

Language is breathing, mutating, stretching itself out in directions the Oxford English Dictionary couldn’t anticipate. AAVE: a system of cultural coding, survival, irony, and invention. Add internet slang to the mix and what we’re seeing is the evolution of language.

Let’s look at the phrase: “And what if I just killed myself?”

A rhetorical throwaway. A darkly comedic exhale. It’s about articulating the absurdity of living one. It’s emotional hyperbole flattened into meme-speak. It’s how we process the unprocessable — through dissociative one-liners that let us laugh at the void instead of getting swallowed by it.

But Gen X hears that and assumes a psychiatric intervention is imminent. They don’t hear the tonal wink. They miss the sardonic timing. They mistake catharsis for crisis. Which isn’t their fault entirely — their cultural toolkit didn’t come with this kind of existential shitposting.

But maybe that’s the point: language keeps shifting to match the emotional literacy of its users. If you’re not fluent, it’s not because the language is broken. You’re just not listening close enough.

So, you could imagine the scenario I had caught myself in.

About a month or two ago, around 6:15 to 6:30 PM, I had been chatting to the owners of the gym I attended — as was common at this point — about my dilemma at work. I must’ve looked particularly miserable that day. So after I bitched, and moaned, and woe-is-me’d, I said, “And what if I just killed myself?”

They were SHOCKED, honey! Scared even! I hadn’t ever, in my almost two years of attending, been so comfortable with them, and it was very rare that I shared ANYTHING in my personal life with them. So I could see the shock, confusion, and turn to worry.

“Oh honey! Nooooo, don’t say that! You’ll be right.”

I had unwittingly unlatched a secret third option — sympathy, maybe guilt, possibly extended accountability. They were shocked to hear it, and even more shocked when they found out that the offender was their age mate. When I had decided to say those words, the language barrier had opened a new world of care from the gym. They were much more patient. They waived late fees. They honed in on my form. They took some time before class and after class to ask about how I was. Etc, etc, so on and so forth.

I thought briefly about saying it at work. I wondered how the experiment would work. Realistically, I think in the context of a workplace, it could really go either way. If I weren’t where I was, I think it would work in my favour.

But that’s literally just my opinion though.