As a worldly bitch well versed in international affairs, I have often feared the world being taken over. Would it be the North Koreans? Aliens? Teen moms? The fucking Kardashians?
While all of these seem very likely, I have come to the harsh reality that our country has only one true threat… hipsters. They sip their $12 organic/vegan/conflict-free coffee, read obscure literature they bought at a garage sale in Los Feliz, and collect unisex flannels all while they un-informatively judge you through their NON-prescription eyeglasses. Hipsters are a particularly dangerous breed of urban millennials that range from the Indie Cindy in a faux fur vest who uses Rachel Zoe jargon (“This quinoa is so maje!”) to the next level hipster who thinks footwear is optional, lives for a meteor shower and patchouli-scented beard braids.
When did mainstream become such a bad thing? Maybe I am ignorant and basic as shit but I am a bitch that likes to float along the lazy river of life. Preferably on an-over inflated raft with a Chi Chi and a shirtless boy spritzing me with Evian. Perhaps the hipster feels it is more admirable to go against the current? Is anyone even slightly feeling my waterpark metaphor? Shoot.
Yesterday, I had my first experience at a local consignment store. I cleaned out my closet unwillingly and figured I should cash in on the low points of my shopping addiction. I have always been really emotionally attached to my clothes. Even parting with something I couldn’t fit my right tit into is an upsetting blow to an outfits’ sentimentality.
Mustering up some emotional courage, I shoved my special little friends into a garbage bag and continued my healing to Crossroads Trading Co. I had heard about this place via Yelp and was assured this place gives you the best bang for the buck (fiscally not sexually – I wouldn’t touch a minimum wage cashier with a 10 foot pole… unless he could get me a discount).
I entered the shop and was hit with the aroma of incense and elitism. It was 85 degrees out and almost every person in the place was wearing a fucking beanie. Did I make a wrong turn and end up in an alopecia clinic?
Then I was hit with the flannels – everywhere I looked FLANNEL. Is this a lumberjack convention? Then I saw the combat boots. Fuck… I was in hipster hell. I felt like I was starting to care about gender equality and probiotics through osmosis. Ugh.
As I waited in line with the other bitches looking to capitalize on their party wear that no longer fit after the ol’ freshman 15, I started feeling super confident. One by one these basic bitches strolled up with their bags of sub par garments (think old comic book tees, crop tops, mullet skirts) and were soon after strolling out with a nice stack of cash. Surely I was going to MURDER this consignment game. I had a sequined Dolce & Gabbana sweater I practically crippled a Persian for at the Barney Warehouse sale WITH TAGS ATTACHED!
Finally it was my turn. A disgruntled gay in a disappointing flannel called me over. I plopped my bag on the counter.
“You are going to lose it for my stuff – don’t worry I would sooner cut my True Religions into dish rags before I brought them out in public haha!”
I usually find myself instantly connected to the gay community but this homo was NOT feeling me.
“Those do quite well here. You may be better off sticking to actual dish towels.”
“Wow you certainly love sequins don’t you?”
“Who doesn’t right?”
I tried to redeem our fractured fag haggery with a friendly elbow jab and playful banter. Whenever I find myself in a social pickle I immediately try to forge inside jokes with people… it has a 47% success rate.
“I find sequins to be really tacky personally.”
What had I done to piss this progressive little twink? He started aggressively going through my hard earned clothes and tossing them into a pile on the floor with a disgusted look on his face.
“No, no, nope, ew, definitely not, no, gross, sick, disgusting, NO!”
“Um, pardon Travis – is that the no pile?” He paused, dangling an amazing Alice and Olivia ostrich feather skirt like it was infected with Ebola.
He gave me an evil smirk which clearly meant yes. After the he put the cherry on top of his NOPE sundae (a sequined cashmere scarf) he told me none of my things are suitable for consignment. SERIOUSLY?
“We are looking for more hip and alternative fashions. Sorry!”
Pardon fucker? He handed me back my bag and swiftly pranced away… probably to go update his fucking photography Tumblr page and smoke an herbal cigarette. As he exited the register area I noticed he was conveniently wearing a distressed pair of True Religion jeans. Fan-fucking-tastic.
If loving sequins, having questionable recycling habits, little concern for child labor laws, artisanal foods and light hearted racism makes me a dumb conformist bitch – I can live with it. What I can’t live with is some fucker in an H&M flannel insulting my integrity and flawless eye for embellishment. So go on hipsters, keep judging me through your lense-less spectacles but nobody puts Baby (and my sequins) in the reject pile… bitch.