talking 'bout my (so sad, so sorry) generation.

 The other night I watched "Reality Bites" for the first time of my twenties. I had seen the movie when I was younger, but the message was not quite as clear or relevant as it appears now that I'm older.

I know it speaks to the issues faced by those a bit older than me, but I find my own generation is not too far behind. We struggle with the same demons - inherent desire to do well, but a lack of resources, and a sense of entitlement that mismatches the opportunities available to us. We were the generation who were told that we were 'special' - special enough, it now seems, to be saddled with economic collapse, environmental catastrophe and financial ruin. The Greatest Generation cash their Social Security checks; the baby boomers sleep at night knowing they did the best they could by their children; even Generation X came out of their existential crises to own America's homes and run America's companies. We are left with astronomical student loans, a dismal job market and no chance of ever retiring.

Without going too far into detail about the logistics of my current life, things are a little tough right now. My grandmother is very ill. I received some good news about work but it has yet to come to fruition, and I am feeling somewhat disillusioned. My endlessly bright and talented husband has been forced to apply for internships, despite the fact that he just received a master's degree. The world seems like a hostile place, and I'm not sure I'm ready for the implications of real life.

I guess I perform it every day; I wake up, get myself to work on time. I perform numerous tasks, ranging from the challenging to the mundane. I go home and play the role of wife, daughter, friend. In all of this, I feel the slip of things I used to do when time wasn't so wrapped up in itself, when things weren't so dictated. I wrote poems. I made collages. I obsessed about all of my relationships. I felt, often it wasn't pure and often it was overly dramatic, but I felt, and I had the pursuit of finding myself to guide the forward motion of my life. Desperation only existed in my head. Things weren't so final. Possibilities were endless.

Now, I find myself adrift, just another Lelaina of a generation failed. We all wanted to really be something by the time we were 23. We all swore we would break out of the chains of college, an out-of-the-box sprint toward career success. We were all given the opportunities our parents sacrificed for. Now we're working as personal trainers and waitresses and cubicle rats, numbing our minds with low-calorie beers and reality television.

I know I sound jaded. It's hard not to. Nobody wants to work at the Burger-Rama (which is why we need immigrants coming into this country, but that's a rant for another day), and nobody wants to sell out. Everyone just wants to shut their eyes and their minds and pretend that none of it is happening. Stop watching the news. Drink another Coke. Go to Walmart. Spend a fortune on a wedding. Have a baby. Get a tummy tuck. Buy some Louboutins.

Or, we can act out in little ways every day. We either change the status quo, or we die this way.

"And they wonder why those of us in our twenties refuse to work an 80-hour week... just so we can afford to buy their BMWs... why we aren't interested in the counterculture that they invented... as if we did not see them disembowel their revolution for a pair of running shoes. But the question remains... what are we going to do now? How can we repair all the damage we inherited? Fellow graduates, the answer is simple.

The answer is... The answer is... I don't know."

I'm nobody's strumpet.

I have a dream.

I have a dream that I will find a generous benefactor who will give me insane amounts of money to use at my leisure simply for being the fantastic creature that is Chelsea.

Apparently, my dream is not so unique.

I have been pretty intrigued lately at the fuss about SeekingArrangement.com. If you live under or a rock or don't read any of the Gawker blogs, SeekingArrangement helps people, well, seek arrangement. By arrangement, I mean pathetic gold-digging "sugar babies" latching onto rich, lonely, seemingly-sex-starved self-righteous rich jerks. Men attach a net worth to themselves, and a monthly "budget" of what they will spend on the right whore lady. in their words:

"An Arrangement is short for 'Mutually Beneficial Relationship' between two people. Such a relationship is usually between an older and wealthy individual who gives a young person expensive gifts or financial assistance in return for friendship, or intimacy."

It's tempting. I am an American. I like clothes. I want a car. I have bills to pay. Denying my consumer-driven mentality is about as pretentious and phony as asking somebody rich to finance my lifestyle in exchange for my companionship.

I've always found, though, that being a gold-digger is a question of dignity. Either people will take handouts, or they won't. I come from the stock who is too proud to take money, let alone ask for it. Unfortunately, I am a big selfish brat. However, this, like all things, has limits. I obviously have never cared about money when it comes to dating. Anyone who knows my track record is baffled at how I have only been sexually attracted to poor dudes. I'm even marrying one.

Which is why the SeekingArrangement thing just won't settle right with me. it assumes that the greatest currencies in a relationship are money and beauty. That's a sound model, I guess, if you recognize that it's directly related to every advertising ploy in modern society. but it's bullshit if you actually consider that 95% of the population is 1.) not rich and 2.) not beautiful. Furthermore, it perpetuates the idea that the best way to get what you want is to fuck someone who has it - money, power, even a discount at the dry cleaners. And anyone with half a brain will tell you - a truly classy lady would never screw for money.

What I always wanted was a charming, fascinating older woman with no children of her own (and, obviously, a small fortune) to take me under her wing. I would visit with her twice a week and drink extra-dry vodka martinis while she warbled about how much I reminded her of herself at my age. Then she'd give me $2000 to go buy a nice coat and do something about that god-awful hair, a woman should never let her roots show.

If anybody's got any hookups to lonely old ladies with eccentric accents and no heirs, let me know.