Stuff Hipsters Hate Read Online Free Page B

In order to be tight with a hipster, you must, in a metaphorical sense, bind a blindfold across your bloodshot eyes and let him or her lead you into the dark of the night, trusting that something “fun” will materialize. Hipsters are the Merry Pranksters that Tom Wolfe chronicled in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test , frolicking children who while away the hours in the darkness of the woods, completely losing track of time until their rumbling stomachs remind them they have not yet supped.
     
    In short: Most of them suffer from an all-consuming affliction known as narcissism, lacking the basic empathy to indulge in the whims of others. Friends function as a means of entertainment and entertainment alone. Once a compadre assumes the faint outline of a real person with “needs” and “desires,” the companion loses his or her luster. Thus, if you attempt to plan an evening beforehand, the hipster will retreat, much like a cat when showered with too much attention. Said hipster will say with a casual flick of his head, “I don’t do plans,” swiftly erasing you from his lexicon of amusement.
     

ACKNOWLEDGING THAT YOU’VE ALREADY MET
     

FURTHERING THE CONVERSATION
     

    Hipsters love talking about themselves. Ask them a question and they’ll answer it in full. Follow up with another query and they’ll merrily continue. But they’re missing that critical brain structure that compels most people, at some point, to break in with, “…and what about you, how long have you lived in Fort Greene?” Stop asking questions and you’ll be met with crickets. At that point, said hipster will sip deeply from his Tecate, gaze around the room and awkwardly slink away.
     

BEING ON TIME
     

    BRIDGET: Dude, you’re, like, so late! I’ve been sitting at the bar downing whiskey and Diet Coke and fending off confused bros for the last hour!
     
    SAM: I’m sorry, girl—I fell asleep while reading Hesse on the roof and when I woke up it was all dark and stuff and I couldn’t remember what day it was. I was still pretty hungover from day-drinking with Chase and John Boy in McGorlick Park, so I made myself, like, a fucking huge omelet and like, 20 pieces of bacon and ate it all at the counter and then Marjorie came over fucking drunk out of her mind and wanted me to go to this dance party with her over in Bed-Stuy and when I said I was busy she broke down and, like, started crying and telling me she loved me. So we had to, like, talk about it.
     
    BRIDGET: I’ve been calling you for 30 minutes!
     
    SAM: Oh, my iPhone ran out of power and I can’t find my charger.
     
    BRIDGET: That’s like the third time you’ve lost your charger.
     
    SAM: Whatever. Am I really that late? What time is it?
     
    BRIDGET: Dude, you’re wearing a watch.
     
    SAM: [looks down at his calculator wristwatch] I don’t even know if this thing tells time .
     

THE GREEK SYSTEM
     

    “Hey Jen, I haven’t seen you since high school. Wow, those are totally sweet flip-flops. It’s not lame at all that you have the name of your fucking sorority emblazoned all over them (or that you’re even wearing flip-flops, for that matter). And that T-shir t is really awesome; everyone does love a Tri-Delt, you’re totally right. It’s not like you wasted a good portion of your college experience parading around in pointy shoes and covering shit in glitter or anything. No. You were making important social connections that I’m sure will come in handy when you’re looking to round up a group of housewives bored enough to bake cookies for your next book club meeting. I hear the new Mitch Albom is the shit, by the way. I mean, it’s not like you were part of some socially alienating collective that requires you to dress, act and think a certain way in order to join. Oh, shit—it was nice catching up, Jen, but I gotta go help my friend Vince set up for this super secret party out in the woods later tonight. Peace.”
     
    —Fiona, 23, florist and