We're younger than our parents were

I slept approximately an hour last night. It was a bad time. I dreamed a pair of college-age girls on the subway told me I had to be on Twitter to be a feminist. "What's your feminism?" they'd asked me. I was confused by the question. Like, did I consider myself a third-wave feminist? A fourth-wave? No, they said, it was a hashtag. ("My feminism is . . .") I'm not on Twitter, I explained. But then how could I keep up with the conversation? The discourse was moving so quickly. I was already left behind. "How old do you think I am?" I asked them. "Old enough to be dead!" they chorused, laughing. "Everybody's old enough to be dead," I told them, "that's what being alive means."

I'm not sure my brain should be allowed to philosophize unsupervised.