How I learned to stop worrying and love the hipster

There are three basic levels of the hashtag.

There are the Jersey Girls, twitter followers and serious taggers, who actually know why hash tags exist, what they’re used for and genuinely use the tags to locate similar posts and conversations. They post prolifically in 144 character sound bites, with cute emoticons sprinkled in their text and perfect additions of stickers, text speak and bitly links. It’s fantastic and intimidating, and when you read it in your head it sounds so steeped in the voices of the poster (whether vapid, enthusiastic, sarcastic or faux sad) that it conjures up all sorts of ideas about them that may or may not be true.

That’s because it’s actually really hard to tell them apart from the second level of hash taggers – the ironic pre-hipster, the critiquer, the sarcastic ass. These taggers will use the hashtag to add content or tone rather than to categorise their post. They might use really long tags like #Imasarcasticdick or ironic misspellings as a way to lash out at the first tier taggers, like #lawl and #5eva. In my opinion, these tags are thin veneers covering a strong desire to participate. The serious hash taggers are connecting, after all. They’re having fun with each other. Their hashtags create a bond, one that the sarcastic dick making fun of them is excluded from.

All this bitterness precludes an eventual understanding of what’s going on. After the 500 millionth ironic hashtag, the ass transitions to tier three- the hash tagging hipster. This tagger is somewhere between loving it and feeling either mildly embarrassed that they do, or defiantly proud of it. It’s not cool to hash tag, you see, not with most people in the mid-to-late-20’s age range. But, once you’re in there and part of the club, it’s fun.

The transition is complete.

The first time I hash tagged, I’m 100% percent I did it ironically. And, I think I know why. There seems to be a polarity in the way my generation thinks about ourselves. On the one hand, special snowflake syndrome has convinced us that we’re perfect. Our narcissism is fed by Facebook posts, our carefully curated Instagram feeds and the brand awareness we cultivate everywhere we go. The reposts and likes on our Tumblrs and Twitter accounts validate our sense of self worth. We are mini television channels, the gods of our news feeds, and every opinion we bestow should be celebrated.

On the other hand, we hate ourselves. Our brand might be flourishing, but our real selves are pale in comparison. This is why we buy all the latest trends, obsessively combing through our little internet worlds for the best looks, the next great posts. It’s why I’m writing this article. Because, when we think about it, it’s just a bit more than sad. It’s desperate. And we hate being seen to be less than perfect. That’s brand erosion. That will kill our feeds. No one likes a loser.

That’s why hipster have such a bad wrap. The comments about the hipster are a form of socially acceptable self hate. Hipsters are desperate for love. Hipsters adopt eclectic fashions to be cool. Hipsters drink too much coffee in trendy bars, out of mason jars, and spend too much money on bad hair cuts.

Not us. Not me. I’m not one of those people. (I’m cool). I’m only doing this because, you know, the coffee here is just good coffee and I don’t care if it’s trendy. I just want coffee, you know. (Please think I’m cool). Also, here’s a picture of it. Because #lawl, and also #ironicfoodposts

Yeah, we’re not fooling anyone.

The thing is, I’m sick of self hate. I’m also just sick of hate. Why hate on hipsters when there is nothing actually that bad or harmful about just liking to post pictures of food? Or celebrating ridiculously full beards contrasted with perfectly styled hair? I don’t know why we need to hate hipsters in order to be seen as cool. I don’t give a fuck if anyone likes my hashtags. I don’t care if anyone wants to make fun of me for it. Because, the other day I hash tagged #randomactofkindness and three charities started following me, and I started following them, and now my Instagram feed is full of happiness and kindness and people helping each other. We connected. The negativity and self hate that spawns the critique someone else wants to fill their world with doesn’t bother me, but I do feel sad for them.

That used to be me. I used to be that hipster-hating person. But I don’t need that anymore. I love my generation, I love being happy and unapologetic about it. I love the things I love. It’s not about likes. It’s about wanting to talk about that spider I once saw, my latest obsession, my new fondness for pears but none at all for kale. It’s about self love.

So, I’m learning to love the hipster in me.

She’s a texture obsessed sensualist that enjoys vaguely uncomfortable body updates, pretty nature junk, critiquing her interpersonal relationship and making lists. She wants you to like her, but more importantly she likes herself. She doesn’t want to read anymore bullshit about hating on our own generation. We’re fucking awesome, with our quirks and our narcissism and our desperation. It’s all us. Learn to love it too.

#hipsters4eva

7 ways to tell your book it’s not me… It’s you.

1. Consider tearing out a page at the back and burning it for every page at the front you do actually read. This way you only have half a book to go and you’ve already started a nice little bonfire to cremate its body once the death throes die down.

2. Entertain yourself by marking particularly terrible passages to quote in the scathing Amazon review you’ll leave when it finally ends.

3. Create elaborate charts explaining why the main character should just become a poly lesbian with a random-but-cute background character, who whips the boys in her love triangle into shape… *literally*

4. Create an even more elaborate chart that shows why this makes sense for both the plot and character progression, and why we all agree it would make a *much* better ending anyway.

5. Start furiously writing your own damn novel, with poly lesbians, whippings, charts and freaking *bonfires*, damn it, because anything is better than this crap.

6. When you finish book 5 definitely *do not* buy book 6. I don’t care how many cliffhangers there are. Don’t… do… it…

7. Shit.

Ten easy steps to learn the name of your friend’s significant other

A Guide for INTs:

Step 1: Establish that the new beau is, in fact, a significant other. Are they going to hang around for at least a month? If not, you’re done. You can get by for at least four weeks by calling them variations of ‘sweetie’ or ‘mate’, and sometimes even longer.

Step 2: Invite your friend and their beau to a do. This will work only if there are people at the party that the beau hasn’t met. Then, invent a fun ‘party game’ where everyone needs to introduce themselves. This will allow you to avoid saying their name, and hopefully you can finally learn what it is when it’s their turn.

Step 3: When this plan is thwarted by being ‘too lame’, save face by changing the subject. Everyone will feel too awkward to say anything, and hopefully introduce themselves in private later. Aim to be nearby when this happens.

Step 4: At this point you must have heard their name at least twice. Yeah, okay, you still can’t remember what the fuck it is, but it starts with a ‘J’, and it’s definitely either Jason or John or James. Turn the J into a cute nickname and coast on this for at least three months. They’ll think you’re cool and fun, or be too awkward to correct you.

Step 5: After four months this person is now upgraded to ‘potentially someone I ought to be friends with’. Use Facebook to locate them on your friend’s friend list. If you’re outgoing, friend them yourself. You now have no excuse. Memorise it or be damned.

Step 6: Learn that their name is Joseph. This is okay, because the name has a nickname, so you can halve it and only need to remember half as much intel.

Step 7: Promptly forget their name.

Step 8: At the next do, ask your best friend their name. Discover that they don’t know it either. You both look them up on Facebook ten minutes before they arrive.

Step 9: When your friend and their significant other arrive, make a point to say their name when you greet them to finally imprint the damn thing in your brain. Success!

Step 10: Awkwardly discover that your friend and Joseph have broken up and that this is, in fact, Henry. Who you’ve apparently met. Fuck.

Rinse and repeat.

The Best First Time I Let a Doctor Touch My Vagina

Lying on my back covered in a paper blanket, trying to think up the most casual way to hold my legs open when not wearing pants, is perhaps the weirdest way I’ve ever rung in the New Year. The vague heart palpitations weren’t helping either.

The urban legends and anecdotes of my female family members ran through my mind. Words like scraped and scratched, the shudders of physical revulsion, the adamant way that the women around me had refused to respond to the doctor’s summons- these echoes of remembered distaste all served to make this doctor’s visit an exercise in exaggerated foreboding. Was I about to summon a sadistic tentacle monster? Was I requesting chunks of my insides to be torn loose and slapped onto the griddle for the viewing pleasure of a torture porn audience? Surely nothing short of terrifying humiliation and pain would cause those kinds of reactions? I couldn’t imagine what was about to come.

And despite all that, I was there. Guilt ridden, terrified and protesting, but there.

“So, I will explain it to you- you’ve had a Pap Smear before, of course, but it’s procedure-“

Um. No. Thanks for that assumption, doctor, but I hadn’t ever had a Pap Smear. Sure, I was 26 and well overdue, but I was also utterly clueless. How nice of you to remind me.

The thing is – the thing is – a Pap Smear is my number one most dreaded medical procedure. Of the long list of shit-I-should-get-looked-at, the top three went:

3 – Get my wisdom teeth pulled out
2 – Have my boobs squished in a big boob-squishing machine
1 – Ask a doctor to stick a scraper thing in my vag

And even then, it was a long, long way above the boob-pancake maker.

I peered at the implements on the tray. A shoe horn, a tiny toilet scrub brush and some plastic stick thing. The mysterious pile of torture weapons. They were kind of… cute. I was perturbed.

He held the shoe horn aloft – “this is a speculum! It goes – Mary, what size speculum is this?” He suddenly looked at the nurse, who hovered on my other side. I’d nearly forgotten her in all the mess.

She was the reason I needed to do this today. Because, despite my squeamishness, this was not the first time I’d asked for a Pap Smear. In fact, it was the fifth time I’d approached a doctor for this procedure.

The first time the doctor told me that “being a virgin, you won’t need that for a few more years.” I was a chubby, 18 year old lesbian. I believed her. Even though I definitely was not a virgin.

The second time, the doctor didn’t even beat around the bush. “You’re a lesbian? Oh, there’s only a tiny percentage of a chance that you have anything. I think we can skip that.” I had been so unreasonably relieved that I’d forgotten to be insulted.

The third time, I’d asked for a full STI check, thinking a Pap Smear would be an essential part of that. They didn’t even ask me about my sexual activity, or what kind of test I needed. I peed in a cup. HPV wasn’t mentioned.

The fourth time, the doctor explained that he couldn’t help me because there was no nurse in the clinic at 9:00pm at night. I’d just left my date’s house, was horny as all hell and determined to get the all clear before I started a new relationship. I was pissed. A bloody nurse?? I’d been trying to get a doctor to look at my bits for eight years! A little thing like a nurse wasn’t going to stop me!

But being asked to leave, please, would.

So here I was, in the middle of the day, insisting on being examined, and nervously pretending I knew what the fuck was happening. I raised my knees, wondering what the hell the size of the speculum meant.

“It’s a medium,” the nurse said, bemused. The doctor peered at me doubtfully.

“A medium? Hmmm. Can you get me the small, please?”

What? I blinked, mildly outraged. Excuse me? Did I look like a small speculum girl? What about me suggested I needed a medium to begin with?! Do doctors actually look at their patients and think ‘oh, no, this girl clearly needs a big, hulking shoe horn! Better get extra lube, too. Heh. Heh.’ What does that even mean?!

Whatever it meant, it couldn’t be good.

The smaller speculum arrived and I cautiously edged my legs open. Like a virgin sacrifice, I lay back and thought of England.

I imagined that the pain would be hard to take. I imagined that I would limp afterwards. I imagined that I might bleed, or that the sample would look like a prop from a gory Dexter episode.

What I didn’t imagine was a quick tickle, and then it was over.

The doctor smiled at me. “Your cervix looks good,” he enthused. I blinked, confused. What was happening? Was he going to do it already?

The nurse smiled. “You can pop up and put your pants on now,” she hinted. Hesitantly, I closed my legs.

And that was it.

I honestly have no idea what everyone is talking about when they complain about Pap Smears. Compared to giving blood, to getting an ultrasound on a full bladder, to waiting to find out if you have to get major surgery, a Pap Smear is fucking easy. Well, not fucking… it was clinical, bland and slightly sticky, but easy none the less.

I want to set the record straight- a Pap Smear is not torture, or uncomfortable, or even that remarkable in the big scheme of things. It’s not only for straight girls, or girls that have had sex, and not only for girls full stop. And, for the love of God, it’s definitely not a full on assault by a tentacle monster bent on rending bits of bloody skin from your insides!

It’s just a check up, the same as any check up. They don’t hurt, they aren’t designed to kill you, and you should just do it already.

But, like… not that boob squishing machine. That shit looks painful.

😉

– Danni

Five Easy Steps to Break Up With Your New Year’s Resolutions

1. (Commit to a diet)

Steal a giant hunk of the double fudge chocolate brownie (with extra fudge!) your best friend baked and brought to the New Year’s Eve party the night before. Eat it for breakfast.

 

2. (Make something every day)

Think about drawing something. Look up reference images on Google, get side tracked by Pinterest. Emerge five hours later.

 

3. (Find true love)

Start by making a Tinder account. Realise that Tinder is still a lot of work. Text your ex. Give up, because you remember that you already have a cat.

 

4. (Save, save, save)

Get an email advertising a New Year’s Sale at your favourite shop five minutes after you wake up. Don’t even hesitate – that’s what credit cards are for.

 

5. (Start exercising)

Convince yourself to do sit ups. Do two. Cry. Lay down again and watch the tv from the ground for a half hour because getting up is too much like doing a sit up.

 

Then finish that brownie, girl. You fucking deserve it.