Nothing drives me mad like those click-farming bullshit accounts you see on Twitter, Facebook, et al, where they'll post "Like if you grew up in the 90s!" and the house they're showing off looks like it was built to the specification of someone utterly paralytic with drink trying to describe the interior of Pee Wee's Playhouse. No, motherfucker, I lived in the 90s, which meant mostly that the paisley patterning on the carpet had worn pale in some spots, most of our Tupperware would find new life as extras in HBO's Chernobyl (2019), and our white computer was inexplicably that shade of grimy yellow you'd see on the back of a chainsmoking grandma's index finger. What the fuck glorious mall did you grow up in?
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in reply to @lagomorphosis's post:
The blue threw me for a second; usually the fourth Fashion Color of the 70s Apocalypse is shit-brown. <3
in reply to @VeraLycaon's post:
i had the wood ply panelling on the walls, deeefinitely had the carpet tho.
in reply to @jaidamack's post:
Me, thinking about the hard green plastic texture of the translucent tiles that let the light in around our front door in the 1990s.
California basically looked like that outside of raves.
The general version of this angers me to no end on the Internet, by how many people I see feeling left out by someone asserting that growing up X (where X represents some race, gender, location, age, or hobby) means conforming to this list that's literally just their memories. I feel like every one of those needs a mandatory disclaimer that says "hey, kid, I don't share your identity and experience, but neither does this dolt, so keep living your life..."