Because this site needs one more break-up letter…
Dear Johnny Hipster –
I know this feels rushed and judgmental. And I know that “Dear John” break-up letters are cliche. But then again, after this, I won’t have to hear you rant about cliches anymore. And let’s be honest, don’t you dress like all your friends? Don’t you love everything they love? And isn’t being just like them a little bit……well, never mind.
I will miss so many things about you. I’ll miss your Che Guevara hat, your navy peacoat, your scarves. Oh, your scarves. The way you wrap them around once, then through, then down. I’ll miss your real tobacco pipe. And your tobacco. As you always say, “beautifully blended fine long-cut shag.”
The lying hurt us. I know you still love Green Day. And not just early 90s Green Day before they “sold out.” I heard you singing “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” in the shower when you didn’t think I was home the other day. And I lied to you too. I was wearing a Hines Ward jersey and watching the Steelers game this weekend but turned it off and hid the jersey under the mattress when I heard you come in. Thank goodness for your fixie’s handlebars clunking against the wall.
Damn. I’m feeling so much nostalgia right now. I wasn’t lying about your new horn-rimmed glasses. I do like them better than your old horn-rimmed glasses. And I’ll miss the way you roll your cuffs after you take off your tweed jacket. Your boots. Your record collection. Sorry, your vinyl. See, that’s the sort of thing. I won’t miss how you’d tell me you were “thinking of watching a thought-provoking film” when everyone on earth knew you just wanted to sit your lazy ass down in front of the television and watch a plain-old movie.
I’m four beers down right now. And it’s not Guinness. It’s not even PBR, the only cheap beer you and your friends have deemed acceptable. No, this is Hamm’s. The beer refreshing. In pounders. $4.39 at Safeway. A store not locally owned.
Oh, and Tom Waits night was also not fun. None of you have his voice, and without his voice, the whole thing seemed sort of silly. And no, I don’t want to hear the story about you smoking an American Spirit in the alley with Frank Black one more time. He was sort of famous a million years ago.
And I don’t like Radio Head. There. I said it. Wow. It must really be over.
And by the way, your writing group sucks. They don’t write enough (you don’t write enough) and Keats is not a good poet for imitation. Neither is T.S. Eliot. Trust me, you’re never going to get there. Ever. I don’t care what your MFA professor whispered in your ear right before you walked across the stage to graduate from Columbia. And no, I don’t want to hear that story one more time either.
How many magazines have paid you for your poems? Huh? What was that? I can’t hear you.
Well I guess this letter got meaner than I meant it to. But the message is clear.
And this will be in your hands soon. Yes, I know where you are right now. It’s open mic afternoon at the coffee shop that only serves organic free-trade espresso. I don’t remember the name of it but it’s the only one on the block in Italian, so I think I’ll find it just fine.
I’ll just finish this six-pack of Hamm’s and buzz on down there. Make a scene.