Writing novels can be tough on cash flow, so I drive Uber to keep my laptop plugged in. The best fun I have is in on a Friday, Saturday or Sunday night. At around midnight on Saturday, a Gen Z girl crash landed on my back seat.
“Hey Mr Uber guy,” she laughed, “Are you happy with who you are?”
“I think so.”
“My grandma says I shouldn’t chase happiness because happiness is chasing me. Is happiness chasing you?”
“Always.”
“Even when you were twenty-two?”
“Specially, when I was twenty-two.”
“Excellent! That is so cool.”
But then a week later, I had another Gen Z experience which I still find dismaying.
An elegantly dressed financial analyst, named Rose, riding in my Uber said, “I’m 25, working 12 hours a day, but I can’t afford a house until I’m at least 45. I have no boyfriend, I don’t go out, I just do my washing on weekends, and take surfing lessons on Bondi Beach. It’s not a life, what’s the bloody point?” I had plenty of answers, mostly about not being in Gaza, but wisdom told me to shut up.
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