When I looked down at my new Birkenstocks, I began to take stock.

Just yesterday, I injured my finger while buttoning my oversized boyfriend shirt top button, and I began to think.
But it wasn't until I was sipping on my boutique ginger beer made from organic ginger harvested on the third full moon of the year, handed to me by a grizzly bearded, plaid shirted, surfer-come-wholefood-café-owner, that I truly realised… it was a revelation like woah...

I focused through the non-prescription lenses of my thick rimmed ironic glasses, looking around the speakeasy cafe with fellow bloggers sitting in front of their lappletops, snacking on their ciao sexy pizzas and hola amigo tacos, and sipping green juices from jam jars and thought; It's gone too far. I've done it, I've become Chipster the Hipster.

But hey, It was bound to happen. So, bon voyage baby, next stop: Brooklyn to hit up the flea markets and then onto watch a band that no-one has ever heard of play in some abandoned gas station.


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