Hipster girl of San Francisco - m4w - 25
I see you, cute hipster girl of San Francisco. 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 Mojo Bicycle Cafe, or browsing the Mamet archives at the San Francisco Public Library, 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 Painted Bird 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 scruffy at best, so I am unable to grow a beard. I work in Soma. I am not a member of a lo-fi shoegaze indie pop band that sometimes gigs at Knockout, 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. And if I do, it’s mostly filled with things about “servers” and other nerdy entities.
I shop at Macy’s and not Urban Outfitters. I occasionally eat meat.
But the biggest problem, hipster girl of San Francisco, 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 Zeitgeist. Thank you, hipster girl. You rock my world, and you make it look so easy.
Carry on with your Bianchi Pista self.