Fucking Hipsters.

All applicable to the following story^^

My first interaction with a hipster, as I understand the species, was when I was 19. His name was Matt Chandley. No, I have no idea what happened to him. I met him, predictably, at an indie music store. I was buying some Jimmy Eat World rarites and he was the cashier at said store. He struck up a conversation with me:

"These guys are amazing live."
"Oh, I've never seen them live. I've never really been to a concert..."
"Oh you HAVE to go to seen them live. You haven't heard music until you've heard it live, firsthand."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Okay."
"Hey, I kind of have an indie band; can I give you my email address and phone number? You might want to check it out."
"Uh. Sure."

Somehow I ended up giving him my number. Fucking hipsters. They're masters of slight-of-hand.

One night, he calls me up and asks me to meet him at Waffle House in Jonesborough. If anything, he had a more embarrassing car than me: his mother's old Ford Taurus estate. At that time, I drove my Pontiac estate, but it was badass. Anyway, he got a grilled cheese sandwich at Waffle House.

At Waffle House.

I didn't have any money, so I just ate his pickles.

He was also an "artist," and told me he wanted to paint me. Whatever. We drove back to his (mom's) house. We decided to leave my car at Waffle House and take his car in case I got lost. Understandable. Commendable, perhaps.

He put in a CD of some uber hipster band that I definitely had never heard of before or since. The album started with one long (like, 45 seconds or so) of an unbroken, high-pitched hell-scream note. Then the music started. Immediately, Matt asked me if I liked it.

"Uh."
"Most people can't stand prolonged annoying noises," he smirked, "This band is smart. They get rid of the people who can't appreciate their unique sound right off the bat."
"Um."
"They're brilliant. I wish I had thought of that."

"That's really fucking dumb," I thought, "How pompous."

Believe it or not, I kept my mouth shut. I used to be quite shy around boys, and I found Matt rather attractive. he steadily became less so over time. Ladies, this is why you should never go for looks alone.

So, he painted me. Nothing sexy about it at all; he was actually kind of rude and demanding. First, I had no sense of fashion (I was wearing a white A-tank top [aka a wife-beater] and a red bra [Avril Lavinge, man] and a pair of pale jeans). My clothes gave no sense of movement in the piece. He made me put on one of his red flannel plaid shirts. What hipster doesn't have one of those lying around?

It took a few hours and I kept moving around, apparently. I can't remember anything remarkable about the piece, except he made my tits WAY bigger than they were at the time (barely an A-cup. Sigh). Then he drove me back to my car.

Later, he introduced me to his friends, Patrick and Patrick's brother. According to Matt, his initial intentions for me were, and I quote, "to shag [me] senseless." But, Patrick decided he liked me and Matt stepped aside to let Patrick have a chance at me. Like I was a doll to be passed around. Fucking hipsters man. Girls don't grow on trees, you know! Not to mention that those of us sitting around aren't always DTF.

I was a dumb kid, let me tell you. I just let anyone pick me up. I probably would have hitchhiked if the opportunity ever presented itself. I was also a very lucky kid- nothing bad really ever happened to me. I put faith and trust in bad people, but (so far) it never bit me in the ass in a lasting way.

So, I don't remember why I stopped hanging out with them, really. I think I just got busy being a real adult and then moved to Radford.

We were in a band together for a VERY short time, though. I wrote one song, called "My Anita." There's a long story behind that. But at least Matt didn't laugh at my poetry and gave good, constructive input on how to make my poems into songs. Matt had a 4-track recorder (what hipster doesn't have one of those lying around?) and some rudimentary instruments. I played bass... on a 6 string guitar... Patrick played drums... on a table and a kid's cymbal set. Matt played guitar. We all sang. Matt insisted upon this.

"It'll be really good for band morale if we all sing."
"I can't really sing," sez I.
"Nonsense. Sing. Now."
"I-"
"SING. NOW."
"A. Aaah..."
"See, you can sing. let's get started," he said with absolute finality.

I even have a pin somewhere promoting our band. I just remember the word "Red" was in our band name, that's all.

Looking back on it, I realise what a fucking hipster Matt was. I damn near fell into the trap.

Anyway, I got to thinking about this because I've been listening to a lot of Fun. "Stars" is a really fucking obnoxious song, though:

Towards the end, it gets a little too... free. If I'm in the right mood, I can defend the odd whale noises the lead singer is making: He is feeling so much emotion. It sounds like someone sobbing and gasping for air. Sort of.

But really, it's kind of an obnoxious song.

I'm a delicate flower

Once, someone I considered a friend told me I was too sensitive. While I didn't have a witty retort at the time, I later thought that I would much rather be over-sensitive than a raging bitch that seems to take pleasure in putting others down.

Now I'm not so sure.

It takes the tiniest thing to set me off, and it keeps getting worse as I get older. I am sensitive. Most people don't expect it because of my public persona. I'm too complex-- and not in the deep old-soul way. This isn't a "No one understands me!" post. I promise.

What set me off this evening was a seemingly tiny thing, but I considered it to be a severe blow. A former student of mine posted their political views, which do not match mine, on their instagram. It killed me. This student... While I can't fault them for having different views from me, I just felt so sorry for them. And now I can't get it out of my mind. Then I got to thinking that maybe it wasn't okay that they had different views than me. Do they not value their freedoms?! Do they not value choice or rights?! Surely, I thought, they must have been raised in a certain type of household and they never made the decision to look at other political options. I began to pity this student.

In my previous post, I stated that politics have put me in a foul mood. Now, for this tiny reason, one in the hundreds of students I have taught, I am incredibly disappointed. I would give anything--anything-- to be in better control of my emotions. I take my medicine like a good girl. The only thing it really does is make me sleepy, but at least it tends to keep the racing thoughts at bay to a certain extent. A normal person would be able to brush this off. I do feel passionately about my political views, so maybe it's not such an over-reaction. But on the other hand, I taught this student. And hundreds of others. I am just so disappointed. I can't really phrase it any other way.

I'm trying to assuage my panic over this seemingly insignificant thing with music. "Carry On" is a song I just want to curl up next to and let it serenade me to sleep.

Pushing the upsetting thoughts out of my head is so difficult. Too difficult, I sometimes think. Sometimes, it's impossible.