I see you, cute hipster girls of Austin. I see you rocking that Deep V wheelset at the Thursday night social ride, or writing the next great American collection of poems at the corner table at Quack’s, or browsing the Mamet archives at the Harry Ransom Center, or listening to the XX on your iPod at a bus stop because the Dirty Projectors are so two months ago. I see you with your wisely chosen and very artful and very sexy tattoos, your carefully-but-not-too-carefully maintained hair, perhaps with highlights of an unusual, biologically impossible color. I see you with your impeccably snazzy clothes, no doubt skillfully curated from countless Cream Vintage visits.
And I just want all of you to know: you are all very hot. Every Pitchfork-reading, farmer’s-market-shopping, liberal-arts-college-educated inch of you.
I know I can never be with you, cute hipster girl. My bicycle has not only brakes, but multiple gears. It is, in fact, a hybrid, the fanny pack of the bicycle world. I am entirely free of tattoos. My facial hair is patchy at best, so I am unable to grow a beard. I live west of I-35. I am not a member of a lo-fi shoegaze indie pop band that sometimes gigs at Progress Coffee, and indeed I can’t play any musical instruments. I can’t even play the ukulele, the fanny pack of the indie rock world. I find Wes Anderson somewhat tedious, and I have not read a single issue of McSweeney’s in anything even vaguely resembling its entirety. My jeans do not hug my legs, and I do not have a single stylishly retro vest or hat in my closet. I rarely listen to KUT or KVRX. Although I own a Moleskine, I have to be honest with you � I don’t really write in it that much. I went to the Chuck Close show at the Austin Museum of Art and I’m pretty sure I didn’t get it. I shop at HEB and not Wheatsville.
My appreciation of Hall and Oates is entirely non-ironic. I occasionally eat meat.
But the biggest problem, hipster girl of Austin, is that you’re just too intimidating in your good taste and vaguely-counterculture-but-not-threateningly-eccentric hotness for me to ever work up the pluck to talk to you. I know I will never be cool enough. Le sigh.
But that’s okay. You still brighten my vinyl happy hours at Waterloo Records and my Shangri-La visits. Thank you, hipster girl. You rock my world, and you make it look so easy. Carry on with your Bianchi Pista self.