It begins with irony.

Hipster Chic.

Everything made to hit a certain element of dishevelment; clothes stained, messy, out of place in the most perfect way. Jeans costing in the triple digits; looking like acid wash, skinny, and torn just had a threesome.
Zippo for the flame, sleeve for the coffee. Marlboro Lites and caffeine make the perfect breakfast sandwich.
A seemingly conscious effort to look like effort called in sick today. Vintage everything. It’s nothing to do with your parent’s fashion. Born like this; out of the womb, blanketed in a flannel shirt, wrapped tight and protected with Ray-Ban’s. True story, ask Alice.
Contents of the satchel: Moleskine, something to do with a Mac computer, bottle cap (Miller High Life), matches, iPhone, empty pack of Lites, Swiss Army knife, a book (something Vonnegut or Thoreau maybe even Palahniuk), paperclip bent to unclip.
Success can’t be measured in achievements; only by stories worth repeating. This coffee bar is the perfect place to brew some.
Puns gross you out, reading that just made you nauseous. Or is that the PBR hangover seeping in? Dirty little bitch. Something organic will fix it, or Mexican. Fish tacos for sure.
It’s almost dark; time to talk with friends and discuss who discovered “Friendly Fire” first. Doesn’t matter, you’re into mash ups now anyway.
Kick rocks about it.

Circa 2006

Stand Up Babson College (circa 2006)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uqbUUwcgUyg

Taking it way back with this video. Goofy material & jump around attitude.

Start at the top.

Hair stays in untamed curls; freshly clean or overdue and dirty.
Same look, brushes can't tear through.
Daily goals backburned for search of a cupcake.
Waste.
Eyelashes in permanent curl. Persian princess; dark & full.
Crush em'.
Pitch or boardroom, bed or bar.
Lucky winner with the right type of conditioning gets the prize.
Are you from Queens?

Digress. Slower now, but at pace.

Sensitive again; hidden for a moment.
Manic expressions and shocking deep sentiments.
Same person; two contenders.
Both vying, lucky to brim for facetime.
More intelligent spoken sentence fragments then in the outcasts of a Hemingway moleskin.
And still no sense to be made.

Daisy smashing, gallery attending; bottle in the left hand blackberry to the right.
Heated by an exchange, shoulder shrug for another.
Eyes go crossed in the passion of a moment, roll deep in the other.

Thoughts in Spanish cloud the English. A reason for tangled sentences unfinished?
Maybe dude. Que Sera.

Pour the beer, devil the eggs, sauce on the side; an Italian chef's worst nightmare.

Simple and patient. Riddled among the party antics, insane stories, and brash attitude is a heap of reluctant intelligence.
Consider yourself lucky if she bares it for you.

Fuck it.

Hike the sensible out the window.
The backpack is filled for the week.
Essentials only please.
Underpants, hot dogs, gun powder, todos.

This, my dear, is a Brooklyn Bridge kind of night.

comic sans

Comic Sans.

The perfect font when trying to say this Church Social we’re planning is going to be dynamite; check out this yard sale on Saturday; Jenny’s turning 2!

Comic Sans, you are not serious – says so in your name. You are the humorist of all the fonts. You make Times New Roman giggle, even Helvetica stops being so popular to smile at your silly curved design. A design that says “I’m casual, I’m breezy” without actually having to type it. A
book you can judge by the cover.

Delightfully vapid.

The thirteen year old girl I used to babysit just called – said she needs you for this Girl’s of America sleep over retreat invite she’s making – you free? Of course you are.

Always prepared; the fanny pack of fonts.

You are the best. Completely casual and supremely fun; so clear a message even Wingdings is like “Whoa, you are really saying something man.”

A writer’s dream; an art director’s perfect evening.
You mask the thickest sarcasm.

How romantic.