I Hate Hipsters

Aboard the L Train, Luncheon Is Served

I hate hipsters a great deal. Their self-assured awkwardness. Their will to be ugly. Their ironic romantic pairings. Their meta-art. Their bed bugs. The way they priced out countless disprivileged New Yorkers from their apartments, including my family. The way they can afford to look poor. And the way they smell.

But my hate has found a whole new height, and it has been made possible by the fact that they found a way to make me love them.

Yes, you heard it here, first. I love hipsters, if only for a moment. It is thanks to their bold-faced crack-addled fanciful tangents that we can have things like a pop-up restaurant on a train while in transit. You make this city great. Hands down, a coup d'etat.

But rest assured, hipster, my hate for you is greater than ever before. But just like a domestic violence victim, I sincerely don't know if I can quit you. Just when I think I can finally oft you, here you come, with your cutesy gestures. Ah, fuck it, bon appetit! Eat me.