Hip

This is for any girl

Who has dated some hipster

With an all-organic pantry,

And a blue and yellow bike,

And an economic beard,

And a book on Kafka that he doesn’t understand,

And a Kandinsky in his foyer,

And a cat named Mary Francis,

And a new, skinny little girlfriend

In BDG high rise cigarette jeans

That smokes the blue American Spirits

That you never could learn to enjoy.

As hard as he tries to be cool and urban,

The fact still remains that

He’s not even from Brooklyn,

And he works at Jamba Juice,

And has a pedophile mustache,

And spends more money on pot than rent.

“I’m just trying to be free,” he says.

And you want to smash his free-range eggs

On his stupid little bike

But

He would just think that the paint chips were artsy and cool.

And you would only give him new material

To self-produce on his indie-label album

That no one has ever heard of, except you.

Because you used to “respect him as an artist”

Or some bullshit like that.

So honey,

Keep dating girls who look like Zooey Deschanel

Or Meredith Godreau

Or Florence Welch

And raving about David Bazan

And Headphones

And Pedro the Lion

Even though they’re all the same person,

Because eventually, all those American Spirits

Will cancel out all the health benefits

Of consuming locally grown produce,

And your yoga class wont be able to save you.

Because even though you think you’re a god,

You’re just a man

Who hasn’t showered in awhile.