Dear young man behind me this evening in traffic,
I'm sure you would consider me old. Even though I'm not even technically, officially middle-aged (yet), I'm sure you think I'm ancient.
My fashion sense is probably laughable to you. Me, in my business attire compared to you in your b-ball jersey (homage to some overpaid, crybaby athlete), slouchy-sagging jeans (I'm guessing, because I can't actually SEE them), and slammin' baseball cap cocked off to one side... I just can't measure up to the tight togs you be sportin'.
Additionally, you probably consider my minivan a loser cruiser (as do I). Your rust-bucket, used-to-be white 81 Chevy blazer is way more chill.
The truth is, I still loves me a good, raunchy comedy... I love loud metal, loud alternative, loud grunge... basically loud music altogether. I've come home half-deaf from concerts, and the ringing in my ears stuck around for a few days as a sweet souvenir. I'm not so much the stuffy soccer mom you probably think I am.
So, believe me when I tell you, in all honesty, as someone who enjoys some outright deafening tunes, if YOUR piece-of-shit-car is so tricked out with woofers that could send sound waves equal to an atomic blast... IT'S TOO LOUD!!!! I'm totally cool with you abusing your own eardrums. I'm down with that, homey. True dat. But the driver's seat in my loser cruiser was actually shaking. My stomach hurt, and my ears felt like they were going to implode (I think they were bleeding anyway). It's time to turn the volume down from, oh I don't know, INFINITY, to somewhere in the 10s to 20s. 'Kay? Word. Dude.
The old biddy in the vehicle in front of you on 144th & F Streets today, 5:17pm