So this weekend was the party. It was fun to drink and not have to worry about driving home.
Dave babbles and speaks in ethnic slurs when he drinks. I think he's regressing into Eric Cartman. Dave and Chad are loud snorers. Poor Katie.
Hoaglin's is definitely the trendiest breakfast I've ever had, but the meal was good. It was pleasant on Mass Ave, overcast, but mild. The servers are impossibly thin. One look at the crowd around me and everyone is a hipster. I'm in my loose Old Navy Khakis that got ripped at the party from an errant nail on a chair, accompanied with my two favorite souvenirs from San Francisco -- my purple "PRIDE" tshirt with the pink star and the unbelievably warm and comfy charcoal hoodie emblazoned with "San Francisco" over it. Everything I'm wearing probably cost less than our waiter's jeans.
On the sidewalk outside the café, there are more hipsters who are even thinner. It's getting so creepy. These people must be foreign. I've never seen such thin people in the midwest. They're practically see-through. The dogs that they walk, springer spaniels, a puggle, a cavalier king charles, each undoubtedly weighs more than its owner. I take comfort in the fact that these thin hipsters who weigh less than a podunk phonebook didn't just have the best eggs benedict of their lives.
1 comment:
I used to be skinny. But then I wasn't a hipster. All of a sudden, when I became a hipster, I wasn't skinny. Go figure.
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