Who are these young people you speak of so freely? What on earth are their strange little mouths saying? I tried to find out and now I have gum disease.
My first attempt was unsuccessful; even more unsuccessful than what you might call the actual first attempt, which was really just for practice. It turned out I was accidentally trying to understand young people who had no grasp of the English language. This didn't contribute to my task in a helpful way. We didn't have a single common word between us, Johan and I, but we laughed, sweet Jesus, oh how we laughed. To my unwashed ears his laughter was like the tinkling bark of an angel. I think he might have been a dog. God, I'm lonely.
That was not the end of it. I'm no quitter. I'm a stalker. You should always meet a young person somewhere that is equally dangerous for you both. I decided to try again, this time meeting with a boy made entirely of germs to see who could poke their finger into the mouths of yawning zombies the most times. My companion grew restless, whining incessantly about "kidnap" and "the police being on their way". I realised by this point that it was important to win the little fella over. I told some AIDS jokes, he showed me the meaning of life by blinking a pattern with his conjunctivitis-ridden eyes. I didn't understand the pattern because I was tired and I kept forgetting but I wanted him to like me so I pretended I got it straight away and this made him happy. In hindsight a cynic might perhaps say that he had been blinking because his eyes were itchy but I know this is not true.
Having learnt fuck all from the first meeting it seemed natural to conduct another interview with another young person whilst hitchhiking down a scary road. It started off pretty well. I got ten points - there are always points - because I flagged down the first rape-van (actual make). Unfortunately the van sped off with me inside before the young person had time to open their door, the crazed driver laughing maniacally through clenched teeth which were holding a big knife because the van was haunted. The last thing I remember is being dropped off safely at my destination with a sincere goodbye and a warm handshake. The following memory loss and regaining of consciousness in a ditch with my hands tied behind my back is something that I just like to do sometimes. That's not a central part to the story at all. Keep up. It's irrelevant. What's wrong with you? Jeez.
Still nothing. How was I ever going to understand young people if fate was against me? I was spiralling into a drug-fuelled despair and the adverts I had placed in the newspaper were attracting the wrong kind of attention. I don't think young people read newspapers anymore, because of all the ink and stuff. The helicopter had been circling my cave for weeks and there was talk of registers, which I didn't understand. Did no one realise what I was trying to do? This was important! I was attempting to bridge the gap between young people and other people who are not young people! I curled up into a sweaty ball and slept for sixteen days.
I was spitting into the idiot books in a charity shop when inspiration struck. I was, by this point, quite insane. Understanding young people is, of course, unhygienic and, my friend's nan claims, impossible. So I gave up. Who cares what young people mean? Little show-offs.