It’s easy to forget things were way diff back in the year nineteen-typewriter-and-pincurls.

Like, I try to consider (sometimes, when I’m bored, supposed to be working, or both) being Pleasantville style transported back to a retro-era. Pointy sweater breasts. Long skirts. Everything in reality transpiring through Instagram’s “Inkwell” filter. And no matter how many times I try to Delorean daydream myself into a pre-now era, I know the reality wouldn’t match up to the fantasy. In the fantasy, I’m McFly meets Nostradamus. All cool and dodging gramps’ advances and telling everyone about 9/11. In reality, though, something worse than 9/11 probably happens (because: butterfly effect.)

Also, no one would listen. Not just because I’m a nut claiming I just came outta a calendar trotting car, but because people don’t listen. I mean, let’s take you for example. You’ve probably got some great ideas on how to run the world (resource based economy, sharing the 1%’s wealth, hiring a team of rednecks with pent up energy to tie incarcerated child and animal abusers to the backs of their pickups every Friday night and go joyriding…) Right? And you’ve probably tried to share them. But nobody listens to ’em now. And unless you brought your magical tablet with you (two – for theatricality – so you could type new rules on each and act like Moses of the cosmos), they wouldn’t likely listen then either. And for today’s retro-tripping, I’m seeing how similarly shitty mentalities of the past were – dating all the way back 1940’s.

And exemplified by the epic snappies some Reddit user took of an old yearbook.

Are we so different now?

Really?

I get that this was the O.G. “Facebook”… but these are students.

Shouldn’t I hear about their sports or cross-stitch or where they’re going to college?

All I’m hearing is about how they look and their love lives. It’s like TMZ for nobodies.

Well this gem was a pleasure to read.

Mostly because I imagine what a feminist football pigskin it would be, once shared among those in my coven who believe our uteruses make us special from the rest of collective humanity’s struggles. As I descend back outta the wormhole that let me glimpse into what was happening just a couple decades before my mom was in the follow-up editions of these, I’m still wondering “Did I just read a year book or a burn book?” It makes sense though. Think about what kinda people would run yearbook committee in the 40’s. C’mon. Not the cool kids. It’s so obvious. They’re championing the short dork and telling the pretty girls in passive aggressive phrases how they’re gonna fail at life – starting with marriage. “Good luck! (HE GOTTA SIDE BISH)”… “Oh, you don’t need reduction, sweetie (YA FAT PHUCK)”… “She’s got lots of boyfriends! (SLUT)”… “He’ll come someday, dear (YOU’RE GONNA DIE ALONE. AND COVERED IN CAT PISS.) Terribly familiar sounding stuff, right? Too familiar…. Sheeeeeeit. Doc can stow his retro-ride telescoping the past to me. I’ve seen enough to know the difference:

Aside from the fact that most of the girls looked like JFK wearing his hooker’s wig, ain’t nuffin’ changed.

See?! The hatefulness has spread to me from across the eons.

Close the portal! We’ve got enough here!