So I was fretting the other day about you, dear readers. Worrying that I am constantly telling you who is not a hipster, who thinks they are but is wrong, etc., but have never shown you what, exactly, a real hipster is so that you could compare for yourselves. I have had the privilege of adoring and embarrassing myself in front of many a douchy hipster in my time, and so am intimately familiar with the cuts of their jibs, their dirty jackets, their cigarette stench, their delicious rudeness. But I want to make sure you can know who they are, too, so you can know precisely why you and I are not one.
I've been on the look out, San Francisco. There are a few authentic hipsters out there; I encounter them sometimes smoking in the dog park near my house, grimacing. But this week, they were nowhere to be found. Then, as my BF and a few friends and I were driving down SF's financial district, I finally spotted one. Oh, man, he was perfect. Three different flat leather bags slung carelessly from his shoulder, long, disgusting curly hair, tight black jeans shoved inside tight leather boots, headphones!, and handsome, yes, handsome. We were stuck in traffic and he was walking with the brisk, heavy walk of the chosen, and so I stalked him, readers, for you, and snapped a few terribly blurry photos with my decidedly unhip cellphone.
I was so proud of myself! This is what you are aspiring to be, you nonhipsters! This is what you are failing to achieve! An air of superiority evident even from the street!
But then, oh god--I'm sure you can see it coming--he revealed his true self. As a pair of musicians walked past our man, guitars hanging over their shoulders, our supposed hipster's droopy frown vanished from his face, he bared his teeth into an absurd grin and literally turned his fingers in mock guns and pointed at them, winking his eye and giving them the old, yeehaw!
Sorry readers, I failed you. Just another wannabe, loose on the streets of our city.
