Personally, I desperately want to be a hipster, but by acknowledging my hipster desire, I am automatically denied entry into the club of the elite cool, because hipsters do not recognize their hipster-ness … it comes to them as effortlessly as their Chanel quilted bags and just-rolled-out-of-bed haircuts, which is to say that it takes a lot of effort to look like you put no effort into it. Do you see how being a hipster is inherently contradictory and therefore totally beyond comprehension? Which is probably why I want it so badly.
It’s also, like, totally cool to hate on hipsters, which makes me want to be a hipster even more. Hating on hipsters is kind of actually a hipster thing to do, so if you hate on hipsters, you’re kind of a hipster … and I don’t hate hipsters, I love them desperately. Therefore I am not a hipster on that account either. Bummer!
But all hipsters fall to their knees when in the presence of Hamilton the hipster cat, for Hamilton is so authentic that he was born with the most perfect handlebar mustache ever. Hipsters, your god has arrived, and, naturally, he is a cat, because cats are the most elite and aloof and esoteric of all animals. I just wilted and died.
Hamilton is a hipster because his perfect look requires no effort at all because he was graced with it by the genetic gods. We are truly not worthy.
All photos via Hamilton’s Facebook page, which you can follow if you want, but Facebook is so 2007, just so you know.
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