It’s been 13 days, seven hours and 46 seconds since I became a hipster. And I don’t get the hype. I’ve accumulated so much crap that nobody needs: 53 mason jars, 22 records, six knit turtlenecks and 95 cacti and succulents. Where the heck do hipsters keep all this crap?
Tonight I tried a kale and tofu salad. I don’t understand why people like kale so much, it’s just wavy lettuce that’s more bitter than my stepfather. And don’t even get me started on tofu! What the hell is up with that stuff? I don’t trust things that look like and have the texture of an eraser. Not that I eat erasers or anything, but that might have been preferable.
I wore joggers to work and my coworkers laughed at me. I had to leave the break room to go and cry into my silkworm handkerchief in the bathroom. That’s been one of the lower points in my life.
I fear for my sanity. I’ve been raking my zen garden for the past three hours under the harsh glow of my pendant lamp. I pray for the end of hipster culture, when a guy can wear sweatpants that aren’t cinched at the ankles, a mason jar is just for sauces and I don’t have to buy moustache wax. Or I don’t have to have a moustache.
The reluctant hipster