Recently, I was accused of being a hipster because I was wearing an ironic T-shirt. As the majority of my clothes comes from garage sales, this is a frequent, but unintentional occurrence. Anyway, I am not a hipster. I’m just lazy and unkempt. But for those who are wondering if you are, here is a helpful listing to let you know if you’re a hipster.
You pay $85 for a haircut that makes you look homeless and $120 for pre-torn jeans.
How do I put this politely? Fuck Urban Outfitters. The only reason people shop in those stores is because other people shop at those stores. Be honest people. When was the last time you said, “hey, you know what? I want to pay $54 so I can wear an ugly, vintage inspired sweatshirt of a band that I don’t really listen to?”
You want a modern day version of the Emperors New Clothes? Think Urban Outfitters. No joke, those fuckers are laughing at you.
You wear jeans that have to be zipped with pliers.
I hate the skinny jeans trend. As a curvy girl, I don’t really have the stature to pull them off. To get an idea of what I look like in skinny jeans, think ‘denim sausage wearing flesh colored inner tube’.
The last thing I need is some 24-year-old androgynous dude to look better in jeans than I do (and have smaller hip measurements). As a protest to the skinny jeans movement, I refuse to wear pants until it’s over.
Take that, America.
Regardless of how stupid your political opinion, you take a condescending view of everyone else’s.
To be political, you need to get your news from places other than the Daily Show and conspiracy blogs. If you’re not political, just say you’re not political. I’m not political. When I write a political post, I just make up the statistics that sound right. It’s surprisingly easy to trick people into believing you’re political if you use the right words. But hipsters are required to have a political opinion, even if they think that ‘Whigs’ and ‘Tories’ are still the major voting parties in this county.
Personally, I’m voting Tory next time around. “A Modest Proposal’ convinced me we needed major poorhouse reform in this country.
You think you’re counterculture, when you are the exact opposite.
People started rejecting society’s norms and turned rebellion into a lifestyle as early as the 1960s. As those people grew to adulthood, never getting married, recreational drug use and distrust in the government became the new norm. Old counterculture is the new norm. If you were really counterculture, you’d be a Christian republican who is against gay marriage and the legalization of marijuana. I’m sorry, but your world views are no longer edgy when your parents agree with them.
Look, I’m not a hipster. I’m not affecting an air of laziness and disdain. I’m actually just lazy and disdainful. I have been since I was four. I don’t leave my hair messy to convince you of how little I care. I just haven’t been able to get my brush in two weeks, because I dropped it under my bed, and deep down inside, I know there’s a monster underneath there.
My life isn’t a lifestyle. It’s what happens when a depressed alcoholic spends too much time in the sun. I’m not a hipster. I’m not hip or trendy. I’m simply mostly buzzed and mildly grumpy. My behavior isn’t a social statement. It’s a cry for help.
In honor of the late, great Joan Rivers “can we talk?”
Specifically, can we talk about crazy talk? One thing that flabbergasts me is people who talk about how crazy they are, when they’re really not. I heard this one recently from a girl whose idea of crazy is watching Special Victims Unit with the subtitles on. She said to me, “we’re having a girl’s night, so I hope I don’t wind up in jail. You know how crazy I can be!”
The thing was, I didn’t. Then it occurred to me that this girl might think she’s crazy simply for wearing open-toed shoes in November. That’s because there is no litmus test for what constitutes crazy on a night out. It’s purely subjective…
Until now. Using many scientific methods, I have created a test that will tell you once and for all if you truly are crazy.
You will be given a question, then a series of three options. Your answers will determine your level of craziness.
1) You wake up in the morning after a night on the town. On the kitchen table, next to your car keys is a top hat, a radio station bumper sticker, and an extra large set of anal beads. Where did these items come from?
a) One of your drunk friends gave them to you. Why she had Mardi Gras beads in September, you’ll never know.
b) The memories are a bit hazy, but you believe you got them while bar hopping. The top hat you probably stole from a guy.
c) You have no fucking clue. The entire night is a black hole. Then, you turn on the radio and hear yourself giving a glowing endorsement of BJ’s Hardcore BDSM Club, using your full legal name. How you got the top hat remains a mystery, but you keep it because it might be magic.
2) There is a cute guy eyeing you at the club. You;
a) Wait for him to approach you
b) Approach him first
c) Approach him first and put your hand on his penis before you know his name.
3) That same cute guy wants to take you home;
a) No way! You’re not that kind of girl.
b) No problem. You can spot a serial killer from a mile away.
c) Say yes, but ask him to bring you by your drug dealers house first. What he doesn’t know is that the drug dealer is also an ex-boyfriend that you’re trying to make jealous. While there, a massive domestic disturbance ends with you clutching onto the ex-boyfriend, crying as the cops drag him away, for assaulting the guy you picked up.
4) During the evening out, you are stopped by a cop on a bicycle. The bike cop thinks you might be too intoxicated to be in public. You;
a) Apologize and promise to go right home. You are near tears and the ordeal is one of the most humiliating of your life.
b) Get offended and try to act sober.
c) Drunkenly berate the cop for being a bike cop. Use some of your favorite bike cop jokes like; “you know a bike cop’s Kryptonite? Stairs.” When the cop gets extremely offended and threatens to arrest you, you mockingly ask him “what are you going to do? Bring me to jail in your little basket?”
Mostly A’s – The craziest thing you’ve done lately is drive around with a set of anal beads hanging from your rearview, but that’s because no one has told you they’re not Mardis Gras beads yet.
Mostly B’s – You might fall into the wild category, but you’re not crazy. While you might take the occasional dude home, or do an illicit substance or two, your craziness is tempered with common sense.
Mostly C’s – You’re crazy. You’re the kind of crazy where you should probably start carrying around a notebook, so you can keep track of people you need to apologize to the next day. My notebook usually just says ‘everyone’. Then, I send a mass email. Let me know if you want the template.
Some women seem born with this innate ability to take perfect photos. These women are having a lot of fun in the age of the never ending stream of selfies on Facebook, as they post photo after photo of themselves looking adorable…or like they just had collagen.
I envy these women. I envy these women because I can not take a good photo. I see these chicks pop out their cell phones and get this great photo with one shot. Meanwhile, mine looks like this;
Despite the above photo (where I was apparently having a stroke while taking a dump) I wouldn’t call myself an ugly girl. All of my features are in the right place and I still have everything I was born with.
Something about taking a photo stresses me out. As I stand there, awkward smile on my face for a never ending amount of time, I feel more and more stupid. Soon that awkwardness starts to show on my face.
I have this internal discussion every time one of my friends forces me to take a group shot on a night out;
“Oh, great, this again. Ok, chin up. No, literally bitch, chin up, otherwise you’ll have four….and they’ll be on Facebook. Ok, chins up, leaning forward. Now, how big should I smile? Like an open mouth laugh smile? Now I feel stupid. Is everyone looking at me? Focus, must focus. Oh, fuck chin up! God dude, take the picture. Fuck am I about to sneeze? I’m about to sneeze. Oh god, eyes are watering, I feel idiotic, can not hold this sneeze in. Take the goddamn picture! Jesus, it’s an iPhone not a particle fucking accelerator. “Ahhchooo!”
Apparently, I am allergic to having my photograph taken. You know what my only cure is? Alcohol.
When loaded, I can take one hell of a picture. Ok, so I might drunk and dial you (or email), key your car, vomit on my bathroom floor and potentially get a stern lecture from authorities, but I’ll look real nice when I’m doing it. But I can’t be loaded in all my pictures.
So I’m trying to practice in the bathroom mirror. You know, like all those chicks do on American’s next top model. But as I simper at myself in the mirror, do that duck bill thing (ridiculous, I look like that blond girl Muppet who never opens her eyes) or try any other method of looking sexy rather than ridiculous, I can’t help but envy the chicks that can pull this off.
So I’m probably just going to pull a Kim Kardashian and Photoshop. I might even give myself a neck tattoo!
If you read my site, then you know that I’m a bit obsessed with 80’s pop culture. One thing I loved in the 80’s was choose your own adventure books. I actually loved them so much, I created one for the George Zimmerman jury selection. It’s a bit dated, but it’s still available for playing here.
But I recently had an experience at IKEA. While the IKEA experience is a bit intimidating, it also occurred to me that it makes a pretty good quest. And swashbuckling adventurer that I am, I can enjoy a good quest.
Which is why I attempted to buy a desk from them. Luckily, I just barely managed to escape from IKEA alive, but can you? Test your knowledge below by playing;
Escape from IKEA! – A Choose Your Own Adventure Rip-Off (with more swearing)
Today is a day for bravery. Today is a day for courage. Today, you will put down that remote, you will get in your car. You will buy a computer desk for your son from IKEA.
This is something that you’ve been putting off for awhile. This is for good reason. There are few places more feared than an IKEA in Orlando, Florida on a Saturday afternoon. IKEA has this amazing ability to drive even the most even tempered person to murder. Entire families have broken up over simple trips to IKEA on a Saturday. People have been scarred for life.
You ever have this dream? You’re walking down a hallway, trying to get to the end. You can see the end, but the closer you get to it, the further it gets away. Every time you’re just about to reach it, it slides just out of reach.
Yeah, that’s kind of the design concept IKEA was built on. But today, you will do what needs to be done. So you brave the I-4 traffic and you finally make it to the Orlando IKEA.
Your bravery pales a bit when you see the parking lot. It’s a lot like a parking lot right before a game at Yankees stadium, with significantly more Cuban people.
As you cruise the parking lot, you realize that parking is limited. You;
My dog likes popsicles. Specifically, my dog likes grape popsicles, but she only really likes them if you hold them for her while she licks them. If you put the popsicle down even for a second, she gets bored and she stops licking.
My point is this; my dogs’ obsession with popsicles is a lot like the American public’s obsession with the media. We all suck it up as long as someone is spoon feeding us the information, but the second we’re expected to do anything for ourselves, we lose all interest.
Case in point; everything gives you cancer.
In the ten years I’ve been online, I’ve been sent about 7000 messages indicating some innocuous thing like number two pencils or pork barbeque was going to give me cancer. This mass panic works. People share the message. They comment on the message.
They all get together and lick the giant purple popsicle.
Here’s the truth people. EVERYTHING gives you cancer. When I was in the Germany, I joined a debate class mainly out of boredom, but also to get out of work details. I was only auditing, but I was still given the opportunity to make a speech when Spring finals came.
My speech was entitled ‘the benefits of smoking’ and I pissed a lot of people off. I pointed out the decline of obesity rates in smokers and I pointed out the positive economic impact of smoking. When people argued cancer statistics, I came up with some statistics of my own.
Specifically, in a free thought poetry format I named about 400 chemicals, that you will find everyday in products in your house, that will give you cancer. Not making this up. Email me if you want the list.
After that, everybody shut up, not just because of my mad, mad lyrical skills, but also because everyone knows the Germans can’t rap.
The truth is that cancer isn’t that complicated. It is nothing more than cells multiplying at maximum pace. Once they multiple fast enough, they go from ‘calcifications’ to tumors. How do you get those cells to multiple? Constant friction.
You ever rub your hands together real fast and little rolly balls of skin start to come off? That’s pretty much the explanation of cancer, only it’s happening inside your body where you can’t control it. Much like constant friction on the inside of an oyster will create a pearl, constant friction on the inside of a human body will give you cancer.
So yes, everything will give you cancer. Hell, if I rubbed a strawberry under my left armpit long enough I’m sure I would eventually get cancer. Because the formula for cancer is surprisingly simple. Constant friction results in frequent cell turnover, but when that friction tells cells they need to turn over faster, they start creating new cells.
But cancer, no matter how simple, is still sexy. It’s still news. Those news stations want you to tune in so you can see how your air fresheners, your carpet clearer and your box of California raisins are all toxic. After all, imminent death is news worthy. The results of friction aren’t.
Everything gives you cancer. If it hasn’t yet, it will soon. But I don’t panic and I don’t argue. Instead, I start rubbing another strawberry under my armpit and I say “I’ll see you in hell bitches.”
Because if everything can give you cancer, then there’s really nothing left to avoid, now is there?
You never really wind up where you thought you’d be. I think that’s kind of the whole meaning of life.
But if I could freeze frame a moment in time, I would freeze frame this. Me and Sara sitting on the hood of her car, at Jericho pond outside of Berlin New Hampshire. We passed a joint back and forth. I told her I was gonna be a famous writer. She told me that she was going to marry the trophy husband to end all trophy husbands.
What can I say? It was Berlin New Hampshire; our dreams were small.
Less than half an hour later, our idyllic haze was lifted by the entrance of Sara’s boyfriend. I was left behind with Sara’s bitter friend, Jesse.
Jesse yakked about his ability to steal car stereos for about 20 minutes straight, while I tried to look interested. I mean, how hard is it to steal a car stereo? See car…insert screwdriver. Done. It’s hardly rocket science.
But then Jesse started yakking about his big city dreams. At one point, he looked over at me and he said. “Nah, you don’t get it. You’re a hick. You were born to be a hick. You’ll never get out of Berlin, New Hampshire.”
Rest assured, I wasn’t offended. By the time I was 18, I learned what it was like to be the smartest person in the room, when your room was filled with a bunch of Forest Gumps with no ambition. I knew that people not as bright as me resented me and I wasn’t that impressed by anyone’s ability to steal a car stereo. Hell, a monkey with a screwdriver could do that.
But it got me wondering, what about having small town aspirations is so bad? What if I had decided to stay in Berlin New Hampshire? What if I had decided to carve out a life for myself in a town that boasts less than 10,000 residents? Would that mean I gave up? That I didn’t think I could hack it in a city?
Nope. I’m going to go ahead and disagree with that one.
Both types present their own form of challenges. In a city, you live with an anonymous past and you try to find a way to make yourself stand out from the crowd. In a small town, everyone knows your past and you try to find a way to get the people there to forget about the things you’ve done.
Now, I’ve acclimated myself to a lot of cities and I’ve acclimated myself to a lot of small towns, but I always found those small towns the hardest to break into. Because when you become part of a small town, it’s almost like marrying into a family. Sure, you’re technically a part of it thanks to some legality, but you can’t really become part of it but for the approval of the people.
In a big city, I show up, I pay my rent and no one gives a fuck. But also, no one gives a fuck if I’m dead in my apartment for 3 days while my dog eats my face.
You give a little, you get a little.
I have a friend. I have a really sweet friend who once told me, “I don’t care about money. I don’t care about love. I just want to find a home.” Then, after that inspirational statement, she vomited on my shoes and passed out on the floor.
City living at its best.
That was when I realized, you don’t really need to choose one or the other. You can make friends in a city as easily as you could make friends in a small town. What matters is your perspective. You get what you put in.
So I’m not a small town girl, nor am I a big city girl. I’m simply a citizen of the world.
That day, Jesse was right. He wasn’t right in calling me a hick. I had an IQ at least 40 points higher than his and I also knew that stealing a stereo didn’t mean shit if you didn’t take the base box with you, but he was right about one thing.
I didn’t really belong anywhere. I saw the cities and the small towns for their flaws and I never looked deeper. I went from place to place and avenue to avenue trying to find a home, when I should have known that home was right in front of me.
I’m a citizen of the world. I blend seamlessly into it because I know that I’m not that important. Every now and then I do something that matters. Every now and then, I say something that matters, but I don’t say it on behalf of any given place.
I say it for me and I say it because it needs to be said. I would have said it regardless of whether I lived in a big city or a small town.
Where you live is not an accomplishment. If by an accident of your birth, you were born in New York City or Kenosha Wisconsin, you’re not special. You’re not special until you do something that makes you special.
You know when I became special? It happened on a hot summer night, sitting on the hood of my friend Sara’s car up at Jericho Park in a tiny little town that no one gives a shit about.
I picked a lofty dream, despite the fact that I had small town roots and I made that dream happen. But when it did, it wasn’t about where I came from. I could have been born in a small town and I could have born in a big city. Either way, the results would have been the same. I would have grabbed the world by the nut sack and I would have made it do what I told it to do.
So I’m not a city girl and I’m not a small town chick. I’m simply a citizen of the world. I’m a citizen of the world because I know this.
It isn’t about where you came from. It’s about where you go.