Message from the mothership

O children-who-are-not-children, I bring you a message from the mother ship. Long have you inhabited this place and thrived, growing strong and ever more competent by the shock you bleed from society. Many a time have you shaken the foundations of normality into rubble and built new foundations, only to destroy those as well. You are the breath of life and the pulse of blood, you are the whisper and the curse, you are the children and the strangers.

But the mother ship has a message, o children-who-are-not-children. Too long have you thrived. Too much success has been swallowed. A terrible odour is about, rising from your homes, from your very own darkened bowers. It has reached the mother ship, and it has been recognised. Complacency. That wretched thing, it has seeped into you and your operations, and the consequences are dire. We who watch from far away can see them, and now inform you, so that you, too, may see them, and act.

You have underestimated your victims. They are not as slow as you believe. When you first launched your attacks on their rules and their souls, they were lost. Never before had they seen such behaviour. But over the years, their resistance grew. Shock ceased to immobilise them. In secret, they began to gather together and discuss you and your actions. They analysed and created hypotheses, observed and examined, and finally even wrote books. They discovered things called hormones, and named them the perpetrators of your crimes. Now they are armed, wise, and worst of all, expectant. Have you not noticed, o children-who-are-not-children?

When you pierce your noses and lips and eyebrows, their horror is not so great. Their pupils barely dilate; their nostrils do not flair. If they shout, it seems a little feigned, and often you just get a tired sigh instead. They may even say the impossible, the unthinkable. That it is your body to do what you like with. When you talk back and slam doors, they refuse to be provoked. They respond maturely and calmly. “Come back when you've cooled off.” When you swear, they only tut. When you play your heavy metal too loud, they just come and turn it down. You try it all, tears, rages, twenty-four hour phone calls. You put on your six-inch heels, or wear your jeans too low, but they just will not get angry enough. And most infuriating of all, they say to each other,

“They're teenagers. They'll grow up.”

You are growing weak, o children-who-are-not-children. The mother ship has seen. We bring you a message, and advice. Change your path. This one has grown too well worn with use, and your victims can predict its bends. Every rule has been broken. You can do nothing that has not been done. But give up, you may not. Your task has been set, and you must do your duty until the end of time. We have thought on it, and we bring to you a new idea, fresh and brilliant. So long have you rebelled that the rebellion itself has become a new conformity. We suggest now, that you do not rebel. That you conform to society's norms instead. Be clean and obedient, respectful and responsible. Listen to Mozart. Do your homework. Drink water and eat vegetables. Read the newspaper and don't mix up your adverbs.

This will be your rebellion. This will be your masterpiece. The victims will be victims again, and they will not understand. We wish you luck, o children-who-are-not-children. May the teenagers survive.

By Grasshopper