This is not a guide. This is a chant. A banishing ritual. A chaotic invocation wrapped in polyester and laced with secondhand sarcasm.
Dedicated to the latchkey prophets and cassette shamans of Generation X, this document is meant to ward off economic dread demons and summon the ghosts of practical absurdity—armed with bean cans, frayed denim, and emotional detachment.
I. Beans: The Cultic Pulse of Protein
Long befor beansprouts were being grown for science fair experiments, they were a way of life. We didn’t eat beans. We aligned with them.
A communion of legumes—cheap, gassy little rebels—boiled in dented aluminum pots while MTV played “Video Killed the Radio Star” for the fourth time that hour.
Beans were nourishment, yes, but also metaphysical preparation for life: humble, unpredictable, and always slightly overcooked, and easily reproducable for no money. They taught us the sacred power of quiet resilience and explosive consequences.
II. Jobs Upon Jobs Upon Jobs
We worked. Not to ascend, but to endure.
Babysitting devil spawn, hawking chocolate bars for band camp, re-shelving Judy Blume novels at the library—all layered like the onion of economic absurdity.
Multiple jobs weren’t a hustle. They were a talisman against dependency. A woven spell of independence with a lingering aroma of Pizza Hut uniforms and expired W-2s.
III. The Pilgrimage of Foot Commute
Feet. Blisters. Destiny.
We walked not because it was healthy (it wasn’t), nor because it was cool (definitely not), but because it was the only way to reach the local arcade, where freedom came in 8-bit doses and cost 25 cents a life.
Every cracked sidewalk was a silent mantra: I have somewhere to go, and nobody’s driving me there.
IV. DIY Entertainment: Theater of the Absurd
No screens, no algorithms. Just your cousin in a cape made of towels performing Shakespeare rewritten by a sugar-rushed 10-year-old.
We summoned fun from boredom like mystics pulling coins from behind ears.
Glue sticks, cardboard, and a total lack of adult supervision were our production budget. And somehow, it was enough.
V. Cassette-Driven Patience Training
You waited. And you listened. And you missed the intro to your favorite song while trying to record it.
This was our monkhood.
Delayed gratification was not an economic strategy—it was spiritual conditioning via analog devices and parental restrictions on long-distance calls.
VI. Home Economics: The Lost Alchemy
We stitched. We sautéed. We calculated interest rates in spiral notebooks.
These weren’t chores—they were hexes against future helplessness.
Sewing a patch onto torn jeans was a ritual of reclaiming. Cooking with canned soup and elbow noodles was divination through carbohydrate.
VII. Hand-Me-Downs and the Wardrobe Ouroboros
Our fashion philosophy? Entropy chic.
Clothes flowed down the family chain like heirlooms made of polyester and static cling.
Every stain told a story. Every patch was a declaration: “Yes, I exist in the flow of time, and I am broke—but look at this cool iron-on dinosaur.”
VIII. Financial Literacy by Fire
No budgeting apps. Just check registers, bounced checks, and the searing sting of overdrawn reality.
You learned or you suffered. Usually both.
The math wasn’t complicated, but the emotional calculus of shame and pride? That was advanced coursework.
IX. Community: The Sacred Network of Weird Neighbors
Before “likes,” we had Gladys across the street who baked too much banana bread and knew everything about your family.
Community was non-consensual omnipresence.
It was awkward, meddlesome, and—when the economic reaper came knocking—absolutely indispensable.
X. Resilience: Our Default Operating System
We weren’t optimistic. We were inevitable.
Resilience wasn’t a buzzword. It was a side effect of growing up under peeling paint, Reaganomics, and whatever that smell was in the school gym.
We didn’t learn to bounce back—we just never fully landed in the first place.
Postscript: Abiscordian Invocations for the Modern Age
Millennials, Gen Z—hear this not as advice, but as incantation.
You do not need to become us. That would be a curse.
But if you wish to withstand the nonsense, if you seek the Dull Lemon’s shelter without forgetting the Apple’s bite—then learn from the bean, walk like a pilgrim, and record your mixtape dreams even if the radio never plays your song again.
And above all, remember: Be kind.
If you can’t be kind, be nice.
If you can’t be nice, be funny (without punching down).
If you can’t be funny, shut up.
If you can’t shut up, go away.
