Delicate, prone to nervous aggression, burdened with a Napoleon complex, possessed of a picky diet, requiring ugly sweaters and long periods of expensive grooming, and wont to anxiety and petty, public spats in large, crowded places…wait, are we talking about hipsters? Or teacup dogs?
If I have to walk into one more rock show/bike shop/vegetarian restaurant/art gallery/bowling alley in LA to be confronted by the ubiquitous tableaux of tiny knots of twentysomethings with their artist-designed tees, lumberjack shirts, hi-tops and profusion of facial hair, or that “I just got hit in the face with a brick” pouty-lipped, runny-mascara underslept ingenue look, continuing to chat over their Colt 45 while sliding one sidelong glance at you, over their drink, I will whip my rabid teacup Chihuahua out of my Prada purse and fling it into the crowd, shrieking and spraying spittle, like a lit firecracker.
Both the hipster look and the teacup dog are an attempt at saying, “I live a life of such leisure that I can afford to wake up hungover at 4pm to find my hair artfully tousled/I can carry this helpless creature around with me at all times, to all places, because I don’t have to actually work or do anything.” The hipster look and the lilliputian dog are fashion statements: whether you’re sporting a mini puggle or a stylish bouffant of ennui, either way, it says something about you. It probably says “trust fund.” And whether you’re a 19-year-old gamine huddled smoking irritably outside a club, or a toy Pinscher the size of your master’s nonfat half-caff latte…you are BOTH shivering in that ironic chartreuse sweater.
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