Let me be clear before we start this new year.

I’m Gen X. We walked to school. We came home to empty houses with a key around our necks and figured it out. We cooked our own meals before we could see over the stove. We played outside until the street lamps came on – that was our GPS, our reminder, our curfew. Nobody organized our play dates. Nobody pre-screened our locations. We got lost and found our way back. We fell off bikes and got back on. We handled it.

So understand this going into 2026:

I won’t apologize for how I write. When I say “dude,” I’m not speaking gender – I’m speaking generation. I curse like a fucking sailor because I like how it rolls off the tongue and sometimes what the fuck is the only answer.

I don’t perform outrage and I don’t have time to receive yours.

I studied Thoreau. Shakespeare. Frances Cress Welsing. I was raised on BET when it meant something and MTV when they still played music. I know how to think. I enjoy beauty – regardless of gender appearance- it’s because we were taught to give a damn – it’s called a slip. Sweaty pits? Underarm shield. Didn’t know? Ask your mother. And regardless of gender? It’s because your generation didn’t invent cross dressing, drag queens, or trans. I was raised with it… in the ’70s.

If I’m not out of shape, it’s because my first job was before I was double-digits old, I grated my own cheese, walked my own dog, and nobody handed me a trophy for showing up.

And if you don’t understand something I post? ASK. Before you assume. Because as Felix Unger taught us: when you ASSUME, you make an ASS out of U – not ME.

This emoji you see? Consider it a notification: pause. Gen X incoming. No coddling. No hand-holding. No apologies.

We survived the metal play structures, razor blades in candy, gas rations, crack, AIDS, and dial-up. Your feelings about my word choices will not be the thing that upsets my day.

Happy New Year. Now let’s get to work.