I am in a coffee shop slash independent book store drinking a 3 dollar cup of tea called “White Orchard.” In ancient China, only kings and queens were allowed to drink white tea, the foil packet tells me. I am wearing a cardigan. Avant garde jazz featuring baritone sax is playing. I am surrounded by people looking at Tumblrs on brushed titanium Mac laptops that were not purchased with their own money. The coffee shop is owned by Dave Eggers. I want to walk in and beat my own ass.
I am an unemployed white man with skinny jeans on and three days’ growth of beard hunting and pecking into a laptop in a coffee house at noon on a Wednesday. This is like the moment where a promising young black guy on his way to college makes one small mistake and finds himself on the prison bus. I am looking down at my shackles contemplating how I threw everything away. I would bristle when they called me a hipster. Nothing hip about me, I would say. I work in an office. No one can be hip when they use Microsoft Excel regularly. Not now.
The girl from the park is here. She came from Denmark to make experimental soul music. Looking for places to rent in the neighborhood. I take her number so I can tell her about apartments I hear about. With my penis. There is no way to describe what her experimental soul music sounds like, she tells me. Have you heard Peanut Butter Unicorn, Otis and the Cramphonics, Subtle Jellyfish? Our drummer toured with the Valtrex All Stars; his autotuned recordings of an oscillating fan tumbling in a dryer earned four and a half stars on Pitchfork. I have never looked at Pitchfork. I guess I better start now.
The neighbors did a photo shoot this morning. A gorgeous girl in all black with a guitar case sat inside a 1973 Buick Riviera GS while another gorgeous girl in flesh colored underwear crawled around on all fours on the hood. She took her top off. Ten in the morning. I thought this was a family oriented street. They didn’t do it long enough for me to masturbate but I can only assume this kind of shit happens all the time. My cat is friends with the cat of the people who live in that house. It has not resulted in my being invited into their lair of unimaginable pussy.
My hope is he will need to borrow my Mercedes diesel glow plug wrench some day, and it will gain me entree into their world. I have taken care to change the glow plugs in my vintage Benz in front of their house at times I knew they would be looking. He owns a similar car, as does every tight pants wearing drug addicted jerkoff on this street. But those wrenches are hard to find. I will be the only kid on the block with a Nintendo. They will all need to borrow my Mercedes glow plug wrench and suddenly I’ll be their best buddy, over there by their fire pit on a Tuesday night surrounded by the type of young girl who can name 200 DJ’s. We’ll drink white tea, kings and queens that we are. Look at those fucking hipsters, someone will say, and I would laugh but my face is squashed against some 19 year old’s muff.
delicioustacos 
I take her number so I can tell her about apartments I hear about. With my penis.
Funny stuff!
You don’t really hunt and peck do you? With the amount you write I can’t imagine how long it takes to type this crap up if you’re really hunting and pecking. Good god man.
yes he does. he writes and he hunts and pecks. but absolutely nothing else. well, weightlifting—but really nothing else
750mL curls?
i don’t understand how he fits into skinny jeans. i own one pair and I haven’t been able to put them on since i started squatting.
Did you start squatting last week?
He types loud and fast, like his fingers are hate fucking his keyboard.
This is exactly how I imagine him typing these posts.
time to buy some hipster glasses with a tiny camera in them, and video-edit-blog everything.
Please tell me you don’t really wear skinny jeans.
#spielbergsgirdle
Why didn’t I think of that?! I’ll tell you why….I’m not that smart! Too cool! I WILL be doing this.