How Each Generation Handles The Collapse of Civilization

The world is collapsing in real time—aliens have parked above major cities, there’s no internet, and all the oat milk is gone.

But how each generation reacts to this latest global unraveling is a fascinating mess of denial, delusion, and digital dramatics. Each generation will bring its own flavor of absurdity to the chaos, proving that even in the face of annihilation, humanity’s true talent is overreacting to everything.

Here’s how Boomers, Gen X-ers, Millennials, and Zoomers will handle the moment when humanity collectively hits “Ctrl+Alt+Delete.” 

Boomers 

Born between 1946 and 1964, Boomers will approach the end of the world like it’s just another Tuesday in the Cold War. They’ve been mentally preparing for this since grade-school duck-and-cover drills, and they’re ready to lecture everyone on how to survive without Wi-Fi and avocados. Boomers will dust off their 1970s fallout shelter blueprints, crack open a 50-year-old can of Spam, and start rationing like it’s their patriotic duty. Picture a Boomer standing in their garage, surrounded by enough batteries to power a small nation, muttering, “Back in my day, we didn’t need any newfangled ‘apps’ to survive an apocalypse.” They’re barricading the neighborhood with lawn chairs, organizing a community watch with walkie-talkies, and insisting that their rotary phone will still work “if the satellites go down.” Their survival strategy hinges on analog know-how—think hand-cranked radios and a dog-eared copy of The Boy Scout Handbook. If aliens land, Boomers are ready to negotiate with a firm handshake and a story about how Woodstock was tougher than this. Boomers will spend half the apocalypse writing angry letters to the government for “not preparing us properly,” mailing them via a postbox that’s currently on fire. They’ll also try to fix the world’s collapse by rebooting society with a return to “good old values,” like bartering with expired coupons or hosting a potluck in the rubble. Never mind that the potluck’s main dish is creamed corn from 1983—Boomers are thriving in their element, and they’re not sharing their flashlight with anyone under 50.

Gen X-ers

Gen X-ers (born 1965–1980) greet the world’s collapse with a shrug, a sarcastic eye roll, and a muttered, “Of course this is happening.” These latchkey kids of the ’80s have survived economic recessions, Y2K scares, and dial-up internet, so a little doomsday chaos barely fazes them. When society crumbles, Gen X-ers crack open a warm beer, throw on a flannel, and lean into their default mode: doing the bare minimum to get by while judging everyone else’s panic. You’ll find Gen X-ers looting the abandoned Blockbuster for VHS tapes, not because they need entertainment, but because “it’s ironic.” They’re the ones hot-wiring a busted pickup truck with skills they learned from a misspent youth, driving to the nearest dive bar to see if it’s still open. Their survival plan is less about preparation and more about improvisation—think duct-taping a flashlight to a skateboard for “mobility.” The absurdity peaks when Gen X-ers form a makeshift apocalypse band, playing Nirvana covers on a scavenged acoustic guitar to an audience of stray dogs. They’ll avoid group efforts like Boomers’ neighborhood watch, scoffing, “I’m not joining your prepper cult, Karen.” Instead, they’ll barter their last pack of cigarettes for a working Walkman and retreat to a bunker of cynicism, emerging only when the chaos subsides—or when they run out of snacks. Gen X-ers don’t care if the world ends; they just want to be left alone with their mixtapes.

Millennials

Millennials (born 1981–1996) meet the apocalypse with a mix of existential dread, over-preparedness, and a desperate need to document it for clout. Raised on economic crashes, climate anxiety, and the gig economy, they’re accustomed to the world feeling like it’s one bad tweet away from collapse. When it actually happens, Millennials spiral into a frenzy of Google Docs survival plans, Etsy-crafted bunkers, and Instagram stories titled “End Times, But Make It Aesthetic.” Picture a Millennial trying to barter their kombucha starter for a solar charger, sobbing, “I just need to update my LinkedIn before the grid fails!” They’re the ones crowdsourcing apocalypse tips on Reddit, posting threads like “Best canned beans for a vibe shift?” Their survival kit includes reusable straws, a gratitude journal, and a half-dead succulent they’re emotionally attached to. If aliens invade, Millennials will try to negotiate peace by offering a TED Talk on “intergalactic mindfulness.” The absurd twist? Millennials will spend the apocalypse curating a “doomsday glow-up,” filming themselves filtering rainwater in a thrifted flannel for their 12 remaining followers. They’ll also start a podcast called “Surviving Late Capitalism’s Literal End,” recorded in a tent, analyzing how the collapse is “problematic.” Despite their panic, Millennials are weirdly competent—give them a Pinterest board and a YouTube tutorial, and they’ll build a wind turbine from IKEA scraps. But they’ll cry the whole time, convinced they’re doing it wrong.

Zoomers

Zoomers (born 1997–2012) face the world’s collapse like it’s a high-stakes video game they’re determined to speed-run. Digital natives raised on TikTok, climate doom, and Fortnite, they’re unfazed by chaos as long as they can meme it. When the world falls apart, Zoomers will livestream the carnage with a filter that adds cartoon flames, captioning it “POV: you’re thriving in the end times LOL!!!” You’ll spot Zoomers parkouring through rubble and filming a “Day in the Life: Apocalypse Edition” while trading crypto for canned tuna. Their survival strategy is a chaotic blend of tech hacks and vibes—think charging a phone with a hand-cranked Game Boy or hacking a drone to deliver ramen. If aliens show up, Zoomers will challenge them to a dance-off, streaming it with the hashtag #InvasionTok. They’re not worried about food shortages because they’ve been meal-prepping protein shakes since middle school. The absurdity hits peak Zoomer when they turn the apocalypse into a viral challenge, like the #DoomsdayFitCheck, where survivors flex their looted outfits in a burned-out mall. They’ll also create an NFT collection of “rare apocalypse moments,” selling screenshots of the sky turning red for Ethereum. Zoomers don’t just survive—they gamify the end, building a Minecraft-inspired shelter while arguing on Discord about whether the collapse is “giving dystopian core or cyberpunk slay.” When the world ends, Zoomers will go out trending.