Your horn-rimmed glasses,
Sweater hoodies,
Vintage leather oxfords,
Authentic woven Guatemalan bookbags,
And your crafty, handmade, wooden iPhone cases,
Tell me you are none other than a self-affirming,
Self-satisfying,
Self-righteous,
Douche.

Dear dirty hipsters,
It’s bad enough, I see you every day on the same corner of the park,
Smelling of week old piss,
Jamming with some dope Rastafarian drummers,
Dancing off beat,
Being all integrated and shit,
Hugging trees and smoking them in the same breath,
Sweat logged hair dreadfully resembling locks
Acting like you’re down because you say “fuck the system!” but in the same
breath, are quick to gentrify the hell outta my hood!

When you call them on it,
they say things like “I don’t see color,”
“Oh my god, I didn’t even know you were black until just now.”
What you meant to say was,
“Oh, I’m choosing to deny your personal identity and heritage in order to make me feel more comfortable.”
“I’m comfortable enough to say ‘n***a’ with my black friends, and by the way, I have black friends.”
They’re quick to suck a culture–appreciated, appropriated,
Act like it’s an act of love and solidarity, when really you just turn it into organic, alternative, indie, vomit.

“Yeah, I listen to rap music–I love A Tribe Called Quest.”
And this is the part where me and my homies give you the side eye.
Why do you think that’s okay?
You don’t get cool points because you’re 13% “Native American.”
You don’t get points for slumming it in the hood when you still clutch your purse every time you walk past a black man,
When your privilege is still the most prominent thing about you.
And butchering African songs, buy yourself Indian garb, “Is that racist?”
Yes, it is.

And we don’t mean to offend you by calling you racist,
We know that according to you, we’re all a part of the “human race.”
But you have the tendency to treat animals better than humans.
We know you hipsters like cats with ironic pet names, like Ernest Hemingway, or Zooey Deschanel.
I just hope to God you don’t feed it meatless, gluten-free, toxin free kibbles and bits,
When you know damn well your cat don't like that shit.

You’re as intolerable as an Odd Future lullaby.
We don’t need to hear your feelings about our issues,
“To be fair, as a white person–“
Nuh nuh nuh, Shut the fuck up.

You’re constantly biting at our ears with unwanted opinions,
You’re blogging Tumblr posts concerning your liberal perspective.
Not to mention your ability to multiply, gathering followers in every second hand bookstore,
Leafing through anarchist literature, claiming you’re an activist–
KONY 2012.

Walking past the poverty in your own city towards a donation box for mythical African children,
because all that continent needs is another ivory savior who’s convinced Africa is a country.

I’d rather eat my own face, chew raw venison,
Than listen to you tell the same story about how you don’t listen to CD’s because you’re strictly vinyl.
I’m sure these points will fly above your ninety dollar haircut,
Designed specifically to make you look like a vagabond,
And I’ll walk down the street and see another one of you.
Crank up your dubstep mixtape,
Sip on your raspberry seltzer water.

I’ll call you a douche,
You’ll call me “reverse-racist,”
Then hopefully you’ll cry hipster tears of sorrow,
Sauntering towards the next removable trend, so when the suburbs call, you can answer properly,
Just as long as it still affirms your individuality,
Because being cool, while not being cool, is almost as cool as being yourself.