My Super Awesome Trendy Hipster Life

Sorry I haven’t posted recently.  Actually, I’m not sorry at all.  I’ve been having too much fun with my friends who are so much more interesting and intellectually engaging than you.  Spending time around them is far more enjoyable than spending time around you.

Classes started again recently.  My new thick-rimmed glasses are so thick that people on campus are staring at me on the street.  I don’t want attention; I just want to be myself and express my own beliefs.  Isn’t that what life is all about?  That and ostracizing people.  Whatever.

Let me say a few words about cardigans.  Cardigans are awesome.  If you don’t like cardigans, fuck you.  The more buttons the better; the more mismatching colors the better.  The more secret the location you bought them the better.

I took this picture of the Swiss Alps when I was in the Swiss Alps.  While I was there I disregarded Swiss people for being too noncommittal over both military policy and fashion policy.  They don’t appreciate cardigans like I do.

Fuck them.

swanypants:

looool

Not cool.

Ughhhh. Not even funny.

Today my college friends Odin and Salinger paid me a visit.  I desperately needed a pick-me-up, being cooped up in a house with two middle-aged, oafish, frumpy reminders of Father Time’s inevitable and unrelenting cruelty for the past three weeks. The last drips of winter break are always torture.  Well, winter break in general is torture.  I mean, life is torture.  But that’s beside the point.

Salinger’s ear and nose gauges now match each other in size, which creates a nice sort of continuance for the whole of his face.  Odin’s got a tattoo now of Sufjan Stevens—I won’t tell you where, but I will mention that a.) it’s not at all in a mainstream spot and b.) Sufjan’s hair in the tattoo is Odin’s real hair.

I showed my pair of compatriots around the several streets that comprise the small,  ethnically white, suburban community in which I reside.  In our little town we have a few shops, all basically useless.  We scoffed at the dog hair dresser, snidely sneered at the consignment store (the inventory of which consists mostly of plus-sized denim dresses), chortled at the art gallery (the inventory of which consists mostly of faux-impressionist paintings of unintentionally distorted sailboats during very splotchy sunsets), and snickered at the saddle-maker’s shop.  We ended up sitting on some train tracks smoking L&M’s, arguing over whose pants were tighter, and throwing pebbles at anyone who passed us who wasn’t wearing argyle socks.  Jolly good time.

When we got home, my mother Diandra asked us how our day was and if we wanted some freshly baked brownies. The day had been okay, I guess.  Not as good as some of the days earlier in my life, like before people knew me and stuff, but whatever.   We all refused the brownies simply to deny ourselves the pleasure.  We wouldn’t want to accidentally do something enjoyable and risk…smiling.

So Odin and Salinger are leaving tomorrow on the 3:36 train.  We called in to make sure it was the least popular time.

Here’s a picture of a camera, which would be stupid if it wasn’t so artsy.  It’s definitely not a picture of me.  Happy anon?

Doing my best Morrissey impression.

Morrissey was a dirty hipster ahead of his time, bless his heart.

Hey, CNN.com.

A single fuck.  That’s what I don’t even give regarding Snooki’s new book.  She’s a sandy, infectious sleazesack, and I want nothing to do with the filth she calls her “existence.”

What do I think about Don’t Ask Don’t Tell?  Don’t ask me, and I won’t tell you.

And what killed all those birds simultaneously in Arkansas or whatever? Probably Lady GaGa’s nose job.  Or John Boehner’s tan.  Or Dr. Sanjay Gupta’s blinding, fat-girl’s-ass white teeth.

Whatever the case, it doesn’t concern me.  I’ll keep on paying for my overpriced coffee with two dollar bills, shunning 98% of the earth’s population, arguing with the barista that yes, two dollar bills are a legitimate form of currency, riding my bicycle everywhere I go, and finally giving up and paying for my coffee with Susan B. Anthony dollars.  

Because, you know, that’s what America does with its important women: puts them on coins people don’t use.  Like Sacajawea.  And Lady Liberty.

Anyway, I found this excellent Oscar the Grouch mug in my basement, and I’m going to love it forever until it becomes too cool, and then I’ll ignore it until it’s not cool again.  That’s the hipster cycle.  Just like the nitrogen cycle, but far more important.

Now this elephant has the right goddamn idea.

I am currently updating from my basement, since the cleaning ladies are currently wiping down my house, and if I let them see me, they’ll begin to slowly vacuum my face while whispering at me in Spanish or broken English.  When they do attempt English, their words are usually to the tune of, “This boy have demon! Clean the demon! Clean him!” I think something about my Ray Bans threw them off, because the second the fat one saw the thick, dark rims, she began to scream, and would not stop until one of the other ladies sprinkled me with holy water.  Hipsters are not demons! We don’t have “El Diablo” rushing through our veins! We haven’t sold our souls to Lucifer for superior flannel shirts or even for Urban Outfitters gift cards (though I do have a birthday coming up, hint, hint)! We’re just simple, ordinary folk who are less simple and less ordinary than most.  That’s all.

Now excuse me as I go read Faust.