Reasons Why I Wouldn't Make A Good Hipster

Once upon I time I explored the philosophies of hipsterism on this little ol' blog. You can read that here if you haven't already. I also, in that post, asked the deep cutting question, "Am I A Hipster?"
I'm pretty sure the answer is no. Especially because of this experience I had recently:

I rode my bike to go put something in my friend's mailbox. She lives just down the street. I didn't want to go all the way upstairs just to get shoes, so I decided to go barefoot. Well, sockfoot. (Black with polka dots. I like them a lot).
I got there just fine, but then when I was going back uphill to my house I remembered how bike pedals are kinda spiky and like to prod into your feet in a really ouchie kind of way.
That will probably be the last time I ride my bike without shoes on.
I don't even know if it's hipster to ride a bike barefoot, but it seems like it might be.

I would be lying

If I told you that:

I want to do my stats homework
I made a quesadilla today
Scorpions make me smile
I hate Hi-Chews
After high school, I'm going to dive right into my rapping career instead of going to college
My car is fancy
I am not on a computer right now
Facebook is super evil and I avoid it at all costs always
I didn't mess up at my senior recital
My hair is naturally curly
I have a pet turtle
No one thinks I'm weird
I didn't eat a gross-nasty mixture of lunch remains in 8th grade
Cheese makes me sneeze
That didn't rhyme
I walked on the moon
I'm not procrastinating anything at all right now
I have extremely bushy eyebrows
I'm engaged to Anthony Davis
Speaking of which, I absolutely hate this video:

 


But now I have to tell you something truthful. So I just remembered a story that I haven't told to the Internets yet, and it's pretty heart wrenching. So grab some Kleenex, and try to learn from this painful experience I had.

Once upon a time in February, I went on choir tour. And it was sweet like strawberry ice cream.
Until.
Until I made one of the worst mistakes of my life.
We were packing up on our last morning, and I guess I didn't check under the blanket on my hotel bed. What I wouldn't give to go back there. If I could do it over again, I would.
When I arrived home, I discovered that my prized green-and-gray-striped granny socks were not in my suitcase. Or my backpack. They were nowhere to be found. Oh, the horror!
Now all I have left is this picture.



They can never be replaced. I hope the hotel maid took them home, washed them, and gave them to a homeless grandmother.
I will always keep those socks in my heart.