Hipster Complex

Hipsters, I know what you're thinking. You think you're so cool. You have greasy hair, big sunglasses and a fine collection of skinny jeans and vintage T-shirts. You like vinyl. You stutter when you talk. You have cultivated a dead look in your eyes that is partially due to the totally cool, hip late night you had being a scenester hipster and doing a shit load of designer drugs. Your voice is horse from too many cigarettes, the almost-empty package of which is rolled up on your skinny arm in the folds of said vintage T-shirt.

But guess what, hipster. I know where you shop. You have to shop for your clothes just like everyone else, and that belt looks awfully similar to something I saw at Target. It's okay. Don't be ashamed that you don't always have the dough or the cunning to sniff out hipster fashionista ensembles out of the dumpster or the couture boutique. You're only human. And let's face it, sometimes you just need a package of white socks.

You see, hipster, I sympathize, because I'm not a hipster. I know hipsters. I have hipster friends, but I am not of their ilk. I am familiar with your materialistic trappings, your vague and cutting edge raison d'être, your vegan shoe collection and indie sensibilities . . . and I won't judge you for buying Starfucks frappuccinos or caring about politics or secretly worshipping bubblegum hip hop princesses. I won't judge you because I know you suffer from a particular malady known as the hipster complex. It's okay to talk about it. Let it out. Maybe, just maybe you can reconcile your need to be hip and crass with your softer, fodder-for-the-masses loving self. One can only hope.