Let us suppose that a hipster girl named Marni is out on the town with a gaggle of other hipsters, kickin’ it at a local watering hole’s massive experimental jazz dance night. She recently met a hipster boy when she was at her friend’s DJ thing at that bar that no one goes to anymore, but she went because, you know, Liam is at least trying to make something of himself (even though he lives in Jersey and gets wasted pretty much every day). For some reason she and this dude with an impressive neck tat started talking. She was struck by his passion for the Irish author James Joyce and his piercing blue eyes. He was struck by her knowledge of French New Wave films and the fact that she touched his arm a lot. They exchanged digits. They haven’t actually gone out yet, but have been volleying back witty texts about the cinematic score of The Virgin Suicides and Neck Tat’s slight Napoleon Complex for days now. It’s late. Marni is feeling kind of lonely/blue, so—bolstered by whiskey and against the advice of her friends—she shoots a text to Neck Tat (who is entered in her phone as such, as she does not give romantic interests real names until they earn that right—they never do).
To: Neck tat
Hey, I’m at Trophy Bar, if you’re around.
Sent: Thurs, Nov 12 11:45 p.m.
Marni stares at her phone for the next hour and a half. She puts it in her pocket, set to vibrate so that she will know when Neck Tat deigns to answer. She wonders, frantic, whether she’s fucked things up by contacting him as the minutes tick by.
Meanwhile, Neck Tat, sprawled on the floor of his friend’s loft, receives and reads the text immediately. He put his phone back on the floor next to the pile of empty Tecate cans and ruminates on what to say. No fucking way is he going to answer after, like, five minutes like some kind of desperate clod. No.fucking.way. After the requisite hour and a half, he flips open his phone.
From: Neck Tat
I’m at home. Come by and hang with me.
Received: Fri, Nov 12 1:15 a.m.
Marni, being smashed out her mind at this point, texts him back immediately, asking what his address is.
Back at Hipster Douchebag headquarters, Neck Tat peeps the text, flips his phone closed, drains a Tecate and settles in for about 30 minutes before the next text. Marni continues to drink.
That’s right, children: Although technology has made it possible for us to contact each other in mere seconds, hipsters have de-evolutionized the concept of communication, taking us back to the dark ages. You might as well send a fucking telegram, because the average hipster texts at the speed of a carrier pigeon.
Stuff Hipsters Hate: Texting You Back in a Timely Fashion
Ei kommentteja:
Lähetä kommentti