AMERICA 2016 — everyone is more thoughtful of people’s identities. Cultural appropriation is on the rise. Most people are familiar with the term spectrum; Feminism is cool and nothing’s wrong with male-on-male rimjobs.

I support all of these things, they’re great (‘specialy the RJs); however, in this politically correct wave of tolerance, acceptance, and respect for cultural issues, I have never felt more misunderstood.

As a man who hates offending people, 2015 was a nightmare and 2016 is bound to be worse. To a straight, white, upper-middle class, cisgender man, offending people has never been easier. We’ll talk more about privileges in a minute, but first, let’s make things clear.

This young generation of ours. Everyone is so sensitive. Instead of contributing to all the open-letter-self-therapy-writing, I’ve sat back and read them. Usually these reads conclude with my fingers pushing crater-like divots into my forehead. Well, fuck that.

Fuck that. Fuck that Fuck that.

You know that lovely word our generation uses? I’m talking about spectrums. The idea that nothing is black and white, that there is only one giant, grey area. I believe this. 1,000 percent. In fact, most things can certainly be broken down into a spectrum. But our generation is missing something: there’s a spectrum out there that no one is bringing to people’s attention. An important one.

The asshole spectrum.

White. Black. Yellow. Purple. Pink. Male. Female. They. Z. Feminist. Activist. Cop. Socialist. Republican. Democrat. Donald Trump. Your mom. My mom — yup, there’s an asshole spectrum and my mom is on it, I’m on it, you’re on it. Somewhere, somewhere.

It’s all a grey area. Some people are, say, 57 percent asshole, for instance. (If you’re the kind of person that honks your horn every time a car cuts you off, or if you’ve ever said something along the lines of "I asked for medium rare, not, rare" or if you’re too lazy to take the damn apple juice back to the juice aisle, and instead you just set it down next to a loaf of bread at Walmart, then I’m afraid you might fall north of the midway point on the asshole spectrum.)

And if you’re the kind of person that shames people for using the wrong pronoun on accident, if you’re the kind of person that thinks fighting for a cause gives you the right to project your own form of intolerance onto people, cuss them out and make them feel shitty for something they didn’t intend to do, you are in the upper-upper percentiles.

Me? No clue. I think I used to be south of 20 percent, along with all the other friend-zoned guys, then 2014 and 2015 came along. They cured me of my niceness real quick.

There was one instance in particular, where, in 30 seconds, I realized many things about this generation of mine. It was the night I discovered the asshole spectrum and the night that I crossed the midway point.

Hey, sexy

It was 2015, my junior year of college. My ex-girlfriend and I were working as RA's at a freshman residence hall — a shitty, old building. We’ll call it Y. Y rooms had the flooring of a 90s cafeteria and the walls of one of those hotels 17-year-olds go to to lose their virginities.

We loved it and anyone who didn’t was a jackass. So one hot night at Y, my lover and I were walking back to her room, shoulder to shoulder, when I saw these two girls arguing.

One was talking fast and had a blue-haired-pixie-cut shaved down to the skin on one side. The other was listening and nodding and growing angrier. They were both gripping the railing of the second floor balcony and I was staring at them, scratching at the dry skin on the back of my neck.

“Stop picking at that,” Girlfriend said, but the closer I got to the two girls, the louder they became and the harder I scratched.

I had to say something to cheer them up. Especially blue-haired girl. I was worried about her the most. Unfortunately, I have a penis.

Privileges We will get back to BHG in a minute

Since I am male and white and extremely privileged, I’ll assume I have the authority to tell you what privilege is like — for me at least. I may be paid more than women. I'm not, but statistically, I may be. I may be perceived better by other straight, white men. There are lots of things that I take for granted everyday. Privileges that I am still checking everyday. But let me tell you a story — a day in the life of a privileged, American, white, vagina-loving straight boy. For the sake of the story with blue-haired girl, I’ll explain this in as few words as possible:

Once upon a time there was a boy. He was straight, white, financially secure, fatherless and had a meth-addict for a mother.

One time the entire house was covered in blood from top to bottom. Walls. Ceiling. Everything.

We have to stop keeping score of privileges.

K letz moov awn.

Hey, sexy Continued

Her friend moved her head and caught me staring. I quickly looked down at myself. What did they see? A half-naked douche-bag with his tank-top tucked gaily into his athletic shorts? Or a handsome, young RA with a chin-beard, dressed ironically like a dad. Either way, I knew I was pretty douchy.

It wasn’t until the ole ex-gf and I were within earshot that I realized, they weren’t arguing at all. They were angry, but not at each other. At someone else. At some guy from the sounds of it and finally, just before passing them, when I could count the beads of sweat coming off blue-hair’s shoulder, I heard one ask: “Is she okay?”

They exploded. Two high-pitch alarms sounding at the same time — one of them on the verge of tears, but I couldn’t tell who. I was too distracted by the tattoo on blue-hair’s left shoulder.

It was some geometric design she probably got done at some tourist-trap-tattoo-shop. The line work was clean and it was unique in a clichéd, hipster sort of way. I could work with that. In passing I muffled:

“Nice tattoo.”

(Now, if my mother’s meth-induced outbursts have taught me anything practical, it’s the importance of a well-timed compliment. I wasn’t going to get a thank you in return from these ladies, but that was okay. I was about to get laid, so I just kept walking, hoping the two freshmen would figure shit out and maybe feel a little flattered. Maybe cheer them up a lil’ bit. You know, give em a lil ole smile. Perhaps git tew no a knew fwiend).

But the two girls didn’t keep talking. They created a silence. A silence of decision.

Perhaps this girl with the blue hair was about to thank me after all.

“Um, no,” I heard one say. I stopped, turned around and stared at them. What.

“She said no!” Blue-hair’s friend yelled.

The back of my neck was on fire. My old love looked at me, her eyebrows scrunching together. The moist Savannah air was thickening and for a minute it seemed we were the only ones on campus — the four of us, together — and everyone was looking at me for answers.

“What?”

“Fuck you!” Blue-haired screamed, turning away from me in attempt to shame. It worked.

I could taste the sweat coming off her sharp, middle finger. This girl and my mom could’ve been great friends.

“Zach…” girlfriend trailed off, “What did you say?”

“I said nice —

“He said, hey sexy.”

All Over Your Face

I don’t know how “nice tattoo,” could translate to “hey, sexy” — my only guess is that the two had been waiting all night for this moment, preheating the porch lights for the first chance they got to kill a man. An hour later, my neck was still burning.

But what if I did give her a slightly less appropriate compliment? What if I did say, ‘hey sexy?’ I realize now that we have to be more weary of the asshole spectrum. Stop checking privileges and check your asshole. Us millennials don’t fuck around. You say “Merry Christmas” to the wrong person and your good-hearted intentions will be flipped around like dough, pounded thoroughly, cooked, eaten, and shit back out all over your face.