I really must insist that you kids get off my lawn.

That’s it, hipsters. I used to tolerate your presence. At times I even found you an amusing diversion. Yes, some of our fashion tastes overlap slightly, but I buy my western shirts at actual feed supply stores in the West, and the only bandanas I’ve ever purchased are used by my father. Who blows his nose on them. And we may share some of the same taste in music, but I’m also unashamed of my more mainstream tastes.

At first I thought you were harmless, hipsters. Oh, sure, your fashion sense and tendencies toward the mullet have sadly infiltrated some of the (previously) attractive lesbians my age, but really that only hurts my tender sensibilities. I can even forgive your taste in beer, because you’re supporting the sagging American economy by keeping Pabst Blue Ribbon in business.

But then I came home at eleven last night to a cringe of hipsters* on my front stoop, and I knew something had gone horribly wrong.

*Pod of whales, murder of crows, herd of sheep… cringe of hipsters.

Now, I should say here that probably some of you don’t call yourself hipsters. Maybe you think of yourselves as “punks,” or “anarchists,” or possibly just “cool.” But a lot of you were wearing skinny pants, I saw more than one fixed gear bicycle, and all of you have questionable taste in barbers. So I’m just going to say the black Converse fits.

Hipsters, I understand parties. I really do. I like to party, in fact. I’ve partied in condos, in apartments, in dorm rooms, in bars, in hot tubs. I am not a person who universally disdains parties. Heck, I even like a loud party now and then. And I didn’t begrudge you your loud party when I thought it was just a Friday night party. No, I didn’t. But when I heard perhaps the fifteenth bottle shatter and realized it was almost three in the morning, I started to have an issue.

And this, dear hipsters, is when I called the police. If I’d known any of you, I might have talked to you first. I might have said, hey, hipster neighbors, would you mind congregating somewhere that isn’t directly under my bedroom windows? Or maybe you might consider this handy recycling bin as a convenient receptacle for your empty cans and bottles. At any rate, could you stop dropping things from the roof onto my neighbor’s potted plants? I’d really appreciate it.

But I don’t know any of you, and it was three in the morning. So I called the cops. And at first this strategy seemed to work. A squad car came by, and I heard one of you say “Oh, shit!”, and suddenly things got a lot quieter. But I quickly realized that the car had never stopped, and apparently a lot of you found another house down the street so that you could spread out the party. Of course, a critical mass of you stayed below my window, because evidently the acoustics down there are simply divine for orating on what a complete asshole that one guy is, and about that amazing show that you didn’t make it to. (I know! I can’t believe you didn’t make it either! Because that show was Classic.)

You, hipster girl, were the highlight of my evening. I just have to thank you. While I was waiting for the cops to come I sat looking out my window, and there you were, dragging a little hipster boy behind you. At first I thought perhaps you lived in that house, or maybe you were just looking for a quiet place to make a phone call. But when you stationed hipster boy in front of you and pulled down your pants, I knew the party had hit a new level. Yes, you were peeing in my neighbor’s bushes.

When the cops finally came after my second call, sometime around four, I hoped maybe one of you would decide to be beligerent and get hauled off in the squad car. Maybe the one who had been slamming doors hard enough to shake my apartment building, or maybe the one who left that not quite empty PBR in my roommate’s potted plant. Sadly, I finally drifted off to sleep in the wee hours of the morning without that satisfaction.

When I woke up a few hours later, I was sure my trash cans would be surrounded by broken glass and red Solo cups, so imagine my surprise when several of you were actually using a trash bag to clean up the alleyway. So responsible! So industrious! I went upstairs, chiding myself for my prejudice against the eco-conscious hipsters, when I heard a slight crash. I looked out the window to see your trash bag piled atop my already full trash can.

And that’s why we have to break up, hipsters. I thought you were a little cute, if unbelieveably pretentious. Often kind of dirty looking, yes, but hey, sometimes I forget to wash my hair too.

But now I know you’re the kind of guy who will leave your enormous bag of trash for someone else to deal with, without even separating out the glass and aluminum. And that I simply can’t forgive.

I’m keeping all your t-shirts and mixtapes.

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