I’m not going to lie–I’m a total fucking hipster. When I paint sassy fish I listen to sad indie bands while wearing a knit hat that I found on the street, all the while drinking PBR and complaining about how sheepleish it is when people say sheeple. Big black glasses and skinny jeans? Absofuckinglutely.
But there is one person more hip than I. He’s so hip that he has a cult that’s probably made up entirely of indie bands that got their start in Manhattan. You’ve probably never heard of it, it’s pretty fhtagn underground.
How many great old ones does it take to screw in a light bulb? Oh, it’s a pretty unspeakable number, you’d probably go mad after hearing only the first horrible syllable.
Adulthood blows. You have to make all of your own appointments, buy enough groceries (but not too much), and obtain your own hallucinogenic drugs. In fact, adulthood makes you take so many drugs you end up painting rainbow sunsets and sleeping for 20 hours. You think you’re a hipster octopus in love with a happy mushroom, but the shroom’s only interested in flirting with the birds, and that would be awesome, but it’s not real.