There is a fine line between a hipster and an old person, and I think I might have crossed it a while ago.
The tea, sweaters and Woody Allen movies are, I suppose, acceptable by hipster standards. But then there comes a time at which you can see no other possible lifestyle choices. Tea and sweaters ARE your life. You describe 92 pro FM as “the devils’ music” and you actually desire to be in bed by 9. You nap… constantly. You are delighted by pictures of cats, you call Walmart “The Wal Mart,” you don’t understand social networking and you jam out to Elvis because he reminds you of the good ol’ days.
Eventually you might start to have arthritic hips and your hands will constantly feel like they got frozen for a thousand years for scientific purposes, like Walt Disney’s body.
What will you do? You will read by a fire and then you will go out in public and boy scouts will help you cross the street. You will show random strangers the wallet sized photos of your grandchildren and indulge everyone in drawn out accounts of your strange, strange life.
Not too far from where we are now.
Also I am wearing fuzzy slippers.
They are so… fuzzy.