I could go on a day long diatribe about hipsters, but I will let this do the job for me. Don’t worry, I will get on my soapbox soon enough.
I will never be a hipster. Lord knows, I would love to be the adorable hipster girl constantly surrounded by a cornucopia of old (sorry, vintage) knickity knacks of equal parts irony and instagramability.
I used to exist under the disillusion that I had untapped hipster potential, but I’ve accepted that I don’t. There’s a fairy that glides over South Williamsburg tucking all the hipsters into bed and bestowing magical ideas upon them. That fairy is unfamiliar with the Central Jersey area. I write this for the purpose of telling all those who are like me, that it is OK. You do you, YOLO, be your own person. Hopefully the Hipster Illuminati will not off me for authoring this article of insurgence.
What follows is an enumerated recounting of my failed experiences desperately trying to join the church of hipsterism.
1. Urban Outfitters
I go to Urban Outfitters, the natural…
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