Here at the Mercury, we've been terribly concerned about the rising number of homeless kittens, bunnies, and otters—which is why we've devoted space every week to these cute little animals that some consider "unadoptable." But after reading our entreaties for readers to share their homes and hearts, another adorable, chubby-cheeked creature demanded the chance to appeal to the Mercury's readers—asking for the friendship, love, and respect that, so far, have eluded him. WILL YOU OPEN YOUR HEART AND HOME TO ONE OF PORTLAND'S UNWANTED BUT WICKED SICK MILLENNIALS?

DEAR ANYONE who still reads "newspapers,"

Reason numero uno it sucks to be you, dawg: You're a member of (ugh) Generation X. Me? I'm 34 and a millennial—the sickest, most utterly unique generation in American history, beeeyotch! While you were clumsily trying to figure out how to sign up for an AOL account, I was crushing it in high school—suckin' down SunnyD, rockin' the internet, and jammin' out term papers on Radiohead. In short, you're OLD and I'm the NOW. Deal with it, gramps!

Wait... don't walk away from me. Everybody's always walking away from me. Why is everyone I meet such a fucking asshole? Anyway, listen bro: I need somewhere to live. And more importantly, you will provide it for me. Despite the fact that people like me are directly responsible for Portland's skyrocketing cost of living (I moved here from Phoenix, dawg!), this city is still waaaay too expensive—espesh the nabes where I like to #brunch. You know, the only ones that are half-decent? Therefore, I will move in with you.

Fuck you "why." It's not like I'm dead weight, son! I got wicked skills—such as lecturing you on which IPAs are shitty and overrated and which IPAs are slightly less shitty and overrated. Or endlessly arguing with you on Twitter, even after you've muted me. I've even written a bangin' gimmick book (but it was for hipsters, so you wouldn't understand). And, as you've probably heard, I'm fuckin' aces at using the internet to write high school papers about Radiohead.

But thanks to a certain fuck-up generation ('Sup, Generation Fuck-Up?) and your refusal to acknowledge my entirely amazeballs talents, I have yet to obtain the swaggy lifestyle I deserve—which mostly involves purchasing new baseball caps, chillin' with my bros, and playing splashy-splash all day in my kayak (which I own, of course) in Oswego Lake (which I do not own, even though I should).

See you soon, dawg! Oh, I will also need your car. I do not feel like buying one.

To adopt Marty, just leave your door unlocked. Just like when he moved to Portland, he'll walk in like he owns the place.