Let’s just jump right to it, shall we? Hipsters. I kind of love them.

I know. We’re not supposed to do that. They represent all that is wrong and soft with America. And to a degree, I can agree with that. In fact, I often wonder what would happen if a hipster of today came face to face with his or her great-great-great-great-great-great grandparent, who struggled against war and famine and an otherwise brutal existence, hoping to maintain their lineage before dying from a disease we cured decades ago (and who was also probably very short and didn’t smell all that nice). Who would be more disappointed?

Courtesy of Light Sound Dimension

But at the same time, I can’t get enough of hipsters. Their blasé attitude. The clothes, the tattoos, the incredible way they consume culture. I love it all.

Let’s back up a bit. Last summer, I moved from Manhattan to Williamsburg, Brooklyn – what is considered the epicenter of hipsterdom. I got a lot of jokes about it, because, well, people love making jokes about hipsters. But while I laughed, I was excited as well. Because I definitely have my hipster tendencies. I have bangs. I have one tattoo and am seriously considering more. I ride a no-gear bike, wear vintage clothes, and listen to obscure music. To me, moving to Williamsburg was moving to a place where I would fit in more than anywhere else.
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