The other night I was drunkenly messaging people on Facebook, listening to some Pixies and wildly vomiting into my trash can, when it suddenly occurred to me that I don't get the term 'hipster.'
Does anybody really know what this word means?
Imagine what it's like being a career artist -- spending one's waking hours searching for inspiration while fighting vague detachment with interminable boozing.
As my cab drew close to the Laurel Hill Cemetery last Sunday, it became clear I was about to enter a truly magical oasis filled with lush buried riches, sparkling epitaphs, and John Wharton's cold dead body.