The Moment When You Realize A Guy You Dated And All Of His Friends Are Pretentious Fucktards.
Good god, I hate specifically-literate hipsters.
Ohhhh, you only read Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson with small dalliances into Frost and Ginsberg? You think getting trashed all weekend long on whiskey and PBR with a side of hash is fucking great? You’re so ARTISTIC and in love with your Nikon DSLR and your iPhone 4’s Instagram shots of your Ray Ban sunglasses reflecting the New York skyline from your Brooklyn rooftop where you live off of take-out Chinese whose white containers live in perpetuity under your bed (excuse me, futon,) because you never can be arsed to throw them out, let alone empty your ashtrays? Or maybe you ran away out West, to work in the “snow industry” and get to board all day long and shoot “movies” with your gnar buddies to host “screenings” of later and hold off actually using your Liberal Arts degree because after all, didn’t Steinbeck tell you, “Go West, young man!” (No, actually, it was Horace Greeley who said it in association with the westward expansion and the Manifest Destiny period in American history circa 1850. But that’s history, so therefore, it doesn’t interest you.)
How FUCKING original. Yes, I’m sorry. Your mono-generic reading list obviously trumps every idealistic thought I’ve ever had. I’m sorry for enjoying women’s magazines and hunting for designer labels on discount. You and your “brahs” and “bros” who pretend to only love those terms to make fun of the frat boys who started them while secretly having adopted them for your own terms of endearment who leave cryptically lyric-ridden messages for each other on your Facebook walls OBVIOUSLY are far above a subscription to GQ. How could I EVER understand your deep psychology, you, who touts Christopher McCandless as your personal Jesus, though you’ve only ever SEEN “Into The Wild.” You’re right. Growing up self-dependent in the country really renders me incapable of understanding your and his plight. (You’re from the Connecticut suburb of New York, right?) I’m sorry I write about sex and relationships and gender communication instead of writing nihilistic reviews of deeply terrible indie bands who only tour inside of the boroughs, or witty “avant-garde” fiction novellas based on the events that happened at that music festival you went to. (Do you EVER actually do anything than go to music festivals, fuck horribly dressed hipster chicks who insist they’re “one of the guys” while not wearing a bra to make their tits more obvious, smoke, and then broodily write about it?) This obviously renders me much less qualified to be a thinking, valid, intelligent human being than you are. I’ll go back to querying agents while you watch “The Big Lebowski” in your bathrobe for the 750th time.
Do you want to talk about the economic status of Europe?
How about the need for handlers in the elephant orphanages in Africa?
Did you hear Einstein’s theory of relativity was proven wrong?
Who was Bradley Cooper’s last serious girlfriend?
What’s the next biggest trend in women’s cosmetics, which would be a clever thing to know, if for no other reason than getting to play the stock market and make some wise investments?
How do you feel about Amazon starting bookstores, and how that will affect Barnes & Nobles’ monopolization of the chain bookstore?
You MUST have SOME opinion about what Rick Santorum has been saying about women’s reproductive rights and religion in America.
No? No? No?
When it comes down to it, it is HILARIOUS how easy it is to spot child-adults. I love bohemians. Bohemians live the talk and walk their own walk. They create and inform and expand and laugh and cry and love willy-nilly because they know emotions are really what we have to express in life. I hate hipsters and their cold, clique-y lack-of-personalities.
I am done, OkStupid. No more hipsters. I don’t want you to show me any more hipsters.