“Baby girl, I’ve been seeing this for decades. You stop thinking about. You just pray for the people left behind. You’re just seeing it now. I love you, but you were born on this side of the track, and you’re now on the track peeking over to the other side. Now you’re getting mad with us, and that’s what we need.” –Tyrone, 62, black, homeless, a victim of police brutality, my friend, after asking him how he felt about the deaths of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile
When I was a very little girl, I heard about Rodney King on the news; I was sad, I was angry, but I did not understand. As an adult, when I heard about Trayvon Martin being killed, I was sad and angry, but I did not understand. When Michael Brown was killed, I was sad and angry, but I did not understand. When Tamir Rice was killed, when Eric Garner was killed, when Freddie Gray was killed, I was sad and angry, but I did not understand. When Sandra Bland, who was killed on this very day in 2015, I was sad and I was angry, (more…)
I’ve officially become Adult With Cat. (I’ve never had a cat before; I’ve always been a dog gal.)
But she’s not any ol’ cat.
Let me share with you the story of how FatFace and I found each other.
This is FatFace:
She’s a feral and has lived on our block for at least five years.
She was part of a feral colony my neighbor took care of, and which I’ve subsequently taken over after my neighbor moved across town.
I enjoy our cat colony, which totals between 10-12 mostly black or Russian blue cats, but let me tell you something about taking care of cat colonies: Don’t publicly share that info at parties. One time I was at a networking event and met a handful of interesting people and had to stop this sentence from coming out of my mouth: “Oh, man. I have to get going! My cat colony is going to be piiiiised if I don’t get home soon for feed time.”
(Side note: Though I now do the feeding, my former (more…)
You know how you have those days when you’re sitting in traffic, or you’re waiting in a long line at the grocery store, and you look out at the world around you and say to yourself “Wow. I fucking hate everybody”?
Additional thoughts float into your head such as:
“Look at the asshole in the gas-guzzling truck with his asshole chin. I bet his farts smell like a dead raccoon in a compost toilet. And he probably watches Power Rangers porn.”
“That lady who just cut in front of me in line has resting bitch face. As a feminist, I shouldn’t be using the word “bitch” in regards to a woman, and I’m not even exactly sure what “resting bitch face” means, but I think she has it. And I hate her for it.”
“Why is that child staring at me while screaming and picking its nose? He’s a demon.”
I had one of these days today. I dislike these kind of days because I try to be a good person, I try to (more…)
A recent work photo, where I was asked to bring something I love and I brought my NPR tumbler
Tonight my roommate and I went down a Gawker rabbit hole, which led to an Emily Gould mouse hole, which led to a “Why don’t I write super personal blog posts anymore?” ant hole.
Refreshing myself with Emily Gould reminded me of the late-aughts heyday of personal blogging, when I and many of my peers spilled our guts through our tiny real estate on the web. But as the years went on, many of us went on to careers that took priority over our blogs due to financial reasons. We also grew out of our twenties, having accumulated spouses and children on our exit, and not finding the time, energy or the inspiration to write about the nitty-gritty of our dramatically different personal lives.
But today…today I decided to write an good, ol’-fashioned Dear Diary post.
And it was way more difficult than I thought it would be.
You see, I’m seven years older than the 25-year-old (more…)
I used to write a lot about personal stuff on my blog, but I kind of shied away from it over the years. Hipstercrite started as a sort of journal for me, a place for me to chronicle my adventures moving from Los Angeles to Austin and post passive-aggressive notes to former boyfriends, but it’s slowly become a depository for my commentary on society and pop culture. I still write the occasional personal piece, but my reality has become much more boring. My life is normal and happy- all the things I hoped for when I was the angsty twenty-something who started this blog. Reality also comes with sadness; life deals you some tough blows as you age, and I guess I decided that Hipstercrite was going to become a strictly fun place. With that being said, I thought I’d write a post about my year, which entailed some ups and downs- as most years do.
-Some of you may remember Lionel, my grandma’s partner of many years. Last I wrote about him, he had Alzheimer’s and was living in a care facility. (more…)
Some of you may recall my previous adventures in edibles, where I feared my face was falling off AND my boyfriend was going to jump off our hotel room balcony. I vowed never to try edibles again. Except I did. And I lost my friggin’ mind again.
First, let me say this: Because marijuana is legalized in Colorado, it’s kind of not a big thing. People who don’t smoke or eat weed, smoke or eat weed. It’s like alcohol: easy to buy at stores, at parties, people over the age of 40 enjoy it.
And second, lemme say this: CURRENT AND FUTURE EMPLOYERS, I’M NOT A DRUG USER. COLORADO IS THE DEVIL. IT’S LIKE VEGAS, BUT MUCH PRETTIER.
Ok, so after my last episode, I was like, “Nope. No way. Never again. This is Satan’s bacon.”
But then I was snowshoeing in Breckenridge with my boyfriend and friend, and the friend was like, “Here, just eat 1/3 of this ONE gummy bear. You will be fine.”
And I thought, Sure. I’ll be fine. What the hell can happen on 1/3 of one gummy?
I wrote a piece over on my Medium channel regarding social media and the Paris attacks.
I wanted to bring it over here as well.
In light of the tragedy in Paris, as I stared wide-eyed at the news trickling in, I wrote this on my Facebook and Twitter pages:
“When one doesn’t post on social media about tragic events, it doesn’t necessarily mean they don’t care. They might choose to reflect or mourn in private.”
Adding to the worldwide conversation felt trivial, needless. Writing the standard “My thoughts are with Paris” or “ Hold your loved ones closer tonight” felt like understatements. Changing my photo to the French flag felt meaningless. There is nothing I can offer to my social media community at this time, nor do they need to confirm how sad and frustrated I am. They feel the same way.
(I am not judging those who choose to express their grief this way; for me, it just doesn’t feel right.)
However, a concern that pops up- a concern that one shouldn’t be entertaining (more…)
Guys, Hipstercrite was voted “Best Local Blog” in the Austin Chronicle’s Best of 2015.
I still can’t believe it.
I freaking love Austin and I love the Chronicle, and to be in such good company means so much to me.
When I first moved to Austin seven years ago, I remember thinking, “Shit. That would be so cool to win something like that,” but I never thought that was going to happen. It still surprises me that people even read this silly thing.
A recent editorial trend is the admonishment of women who apologize. This movement has spawned similar essays that disparage women for vocal fry (common example: any word that comes out of Zooey Deschanel’s mouth), upspeak, the use of words such as “like” and the act of verbally undermining oneself.
(I’m about to defend women who do any or all of these things, but let me first say: VOCAL FRY SOUNDS LIKE FLAPPY MOUTH FARTS. I’m not going to tell any woman how she should speak, but damn, if you do vocal fry, particularly with upspeak, please reconsider for the sake of healthy ears everywhere.)
To me, the articles mentioned above scream, “Women, stop being who you are! Start talking more like a man! Talk in a way that makes men respect you more!” It also suggests that women want to constantly climb their career ladder, with the implication they work in a corporate setting, and for many of us, this is not applicable.
I get where these articles, found in publications such as the (more…)
Back in February, I pulled a Maureen Dowd and completely lost my f’ing mind on (legal)edibles in Denver, Colorado. (I emphasize ‘legal’ for my current employers and any future employers. Hi, guys.)
Let me start by saying: I’m weed ignorant.
I believe this is how many stories begin when someone loses their shit on edibles.
“I didn’t feel anything so I started eating more…”
I guess when my boyfriend and I nervously bought the THC-filled cookies from a dispensary in the hip Highlands part of Denver, our knees shaking as we giggled like senior citizens who had just watched a porno for the first time, we must have missed the part about waiting an hour to feel the effects. We were too busy feeling like scared ass clowns.
Instead, about 30 minutes into eating the cookies, my boyfriend proclaimed that the skunky-tasting treats were defective, so we decided to go for a second one. And then a half of a third.