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.