So, a hipster walks into a coffee shop....
It’s called “The Chilly Bean.” And it’s packed.
In a far, dimly-lit corner, someone sways in front of a microphone, sticcato-ed lyrics dripping from their mouth like molasses:
brand new pen
means i gotta break-it-in
means lots of ram-bl-ing
about no-thing
in par-tic-u-lar
The hipster orders a tall coffee with an intricate slough of flavors and shots of espresso, but the barista merely pops their gum, continuing to wipe out a mug, bold, black words screaming from it’s porcelain skin:
be the change you wish to see in the world.
Suddenly, everything goes quiet, and the hipster soon realizes that everyone in the room…
“You’re not a hipster, you’re too mainstream,” someone says as they sip black coffee from a recycled paper cup.
“You don’t belong here. You’re not one of us,” another says as they snap a photo and alter it on Instagram.
“Boo! You whore!” someone yells from the back, followed by another someone shushing them.
The ruse has been ruined.
“You’re not hipsters,” the genuine hipster says, a look of horror crossing their face. “You’re…You’re….”
The front door slams, and someone whispers:
The hipster cowers, their made-to-look-cheap-but-really-worth-more-than-ten-outfits-combined sunglasses doing nothing to hide the dread in their color-contacted eyes.
“You’re from the other side of Tumblr,” they mutter, gaze flitting around to confirm their suspicion.
In the back corner are the Supernaturalists–the hunters cleaning their guns, picking their nails with vicious blades, and drinking El Sol. “We don’t understand that reference,” the say snarkily.
In a dark corner, candles lighting the tables to make it more romantic, are the Sherlockians, watching quietly and studiously with their cheekbones and their upturned collars to make them look cool. “No, we’re highly-functioning sociopaths,” the snap as they stick yet another nicotine patch on their arms. “Do your research.”
On the other side of the room are the Merlinites, their eyes aglow as they mutter under their breath and turn their coffees into pints of ale. “Why don’t you just go back to brushing your hair,” the ones wearing armor say absently, “or whatever it is you do all day.”
At the coffee bar are the lacrosse jersey-laden Teen Wolfians, eyebrows twitching as only werewolf eyebrows can twitch, lips quirking as only werewolf lips can quirk. “Don’t be such a sourwolf,” the lanky, geeky ones laugh as they hang on the dark, broody ones.
In the center of the room are the Avengerites; the volatile, self-obsessed who don’t play well with others, the tiny…and petty, the always angry, the ones with red in their ledger, the ones burdened with glorious purpose, the ones named “Agent,” the ants that have no quarrels with boots, the ones with 12% of a moment, the ones who aren’t scared of lightening (but also aren’t overly fond of what follows), the genius-billionaire-playboy philanthropists…and the adopted. “We understand that reference,” they clarify around a mouthful of Shwarma.
And, finally, beside the front door, which is painted a very specific shade of blue with the words “Police Public Call Box” printed neatly and boldly across the top, stand the Whovians, sonic screwdrivers whirring as they adjust their fezzes and bow-ties (insisting that, yes, they are in fact cool) before clearing their throats and painting pleasant smiles on their faces. “Hello, we’re the real side of Tumblr,” they say, their smiles widening frighteningly as they lean in closer still and whisper:
Because can you imagine it? The clans of Tumblr banding together? What a fearsome thing indeed….
What would you give to be the barista at that coffee house?
kianamaiart
areudirty
