Writing wrant

I ran into an old acquaintance at the Bachelorette gig at Mighty Mighty last night, someone I used to work with but never really knew. He’s a barman at Mighty now so I see him quite a bit, though usually he’s working and doesn’t get a chance to chat.

Which, as it turned out, was not a bad thing.

Me, glass of Sav in hand: “Oh hey. How’s things?”

Him: (Drops cigarette lighter on floor, picks it up, fiddles with it.) “Oh, you know. Good.”

Me: “Cool.” (Looks at ground). “So what have you been up to?”

Him (drops lighter on ground again, picks it up again, laughs nervously). “You know. Just here. Been working on my writing a bit, but yet…”

Me: (thinking, what writing?) “Oh yeh…”


Him: “So I’m gonna go…”

Oh, so a) how frickn weird, b) when there is silence, the social etiquette is to ask the other person back what they have been up to, because everyone wants to talk about themselves anyway, and c) “I’ve been working on my writing”?! No. Oh no. You’re working in a music bar, smoking loads of drugs as if you weren’t slow enough to start off with, and “working on your writing.” Jesus. You’re every hipster cliche in the box. Your “working on your writing” trivialises every fucking thing I try to do. You are the reason I love sites like Look at the Fucking Hipster.com and Die Hipster Die.

Ok, rant over. Puhlease. Read Poet, and you’ll see what true misery is like, not “I’m going to look miserable and slouch around in skinny jeans because I’m a “writER.”

And then? Go soak your head.

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