Maybe you did too much LSD, or maybe you just blocked out your childhood, but you’re working now and you may have enough money to move out of the rainbow van you can’t even remember how you got in the first place.
Please take a look at some of these common traits of the post-commune hippie baby to see if you’re just digesting your past and ignoring a cultish upbringing:
If you are in a state of wild Dionysian revelry and wear devil horns and hooves to run around the Oregon Country Fair banging on hand drums, you might be a post-commune hippie baby.
If you prefer spending most of your evenings sitting on the couch watching marathons of the Brady Bunch and Welcome Back Kotter, you might be a recovering post-commune hippie baby.
If you know all of the words to every Grateful Dead song and still smell like patchouli, you might be a post-commune hippie baby.
If you have to mail out 20 Mother’s Day cards and you have 72 brothers and sisters, you could potentially be a post-commune hippie baby.
If you know how to milk goats and harvest lentils but don’t know what a mortgage is, then you might be a post-commune hippie baby.
If your typical Friday night is spent remembering a little blond-haired boy frolicking in a haystack and the churchyard flower committee at Church Farm, then you might be a post-commune hippie baby.
If this sounds like you, please take up boxing, go to school, scream. You’re not a robot. You’re an independent soul. You’ve got this.