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Austin, Hipstercrite Life

The Emergency Room is a Scary and Confusing Place at 2AM

“Somebody stabbed me with a screwdriver!”

These words traveled with a ten-person entourage on their way through the ER doors last Friday morning at 2AM.

Geoff and I were at the ER because he had a 103 fever and was coughing up blood.

Not coughing up blood in a Robert Shaw at the end of Jaws when he gets bitten by Jaws kind of way. More of a, Geoff: “Ew, is that blood in my mucus?” and Lauren: “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD! WE’RE TAKING YOU TO THE ER RIGHT NOW! NO TIME FOR PANTS!”  kind of way.

You see, Geoff is a wee bit of a hypochondriac (I love you, baby) and I’m a bit of a nervous Jew who is petrified that everyone she loves is dying all of the time.

This combination leads to barely thought-out sprints to the ER, but to our credit, spitting up blood is not something that is normal.

It scared us enough to take him to the ER because that’s the only friggin’ thing open at 2AM.

As though it’s a prerequisite for getting submitted into the ER, we waited our obligatory Continue Reading

Hipstercrite Life

I Am Not a Girl

I’ve never categorized myself as a girl.

In fact, I’ve never even felt like a girl.

I recognize myself as a “woman” and as “Lauren”, but not a “girl”.

I’ll even take “lady”, but no “girl”.

“Girl” conjures up images of monthly hair, manicure and tanning appointments. Weekly shopping trips with girlfriends, yoga classes every other day and nightly wine drinking. All these activities are buoyed by one topic, men, and the ritual of peacocking is an important daily priority.

I know a group of girls who do everything together. Not a day goes by where they don’t see or talk to one another. Their week is filled with exercise classes, lunches and slumber parties enjoyed together. The topic of conversation is typically boys, but often flecked with diet, health and current events. From the outside, I often look at their narrative and want in. I’ve never had what they had. A part of me is wistful, maybe even a little jealous. Here is a sisterhood of girls who will Continue Reading

20-Something, Hipstercrite Life

I Believe in a Thing Called Love, Just Listen to the Rhythm of My Heart

Yesterday I took a big chance. I wrote an article about my boyfriend on CultureMap- which gets way more traffic than my blog does. I often find it difficult to write long posts, but I found myself able to nearly write a book about my boyfriend. The post, titled “Do You Believe in All the Cliches? A Sappy Relationship Story”, is about how I used to date douchebags and then one day I stopped. I met the most wonderful person and it made me believe that all those cheesy cliches about love might be true. I nervously watched as my boyfriend read the piece once it was posted. The more he read the more my stomach twisted in knots. He loved the piece and when he was done reading I went and gave him a tear-filled hug.

Enjoy the sap…


I used to date douchebags, then one day I stopped.

I’m not sure what made me stop acting this way. Maybe I finally grew up. Maybe I became more confident in who I was. Maybe I met the right person.

Or maybe it was all of those things combined.

Before Continue Reading

Hipstercrite Life

To Dance in Laredo

Life is always an adventure.
Even when it takes you to a border town in Texas where friends and loved ones suggest that your safety will be in great danger if you go.

Texas is 268,581 square miles of curios. Even on the long stretches of dry nothingness or repetitious sand-colored strip malls, the state is never boring. When I first moved to Texas two and a half years ago, I felt like a child seeing the world for the first time. Everything about the state fascinated me and it continues to do so. From the freeways that ascend into the sky to the characters in cowboy hats to the forgotten main streets to the sprawl of major cities, I write a tiny love letter to Texas every day. And now this is my tiny love letter to Laredo.

Laredo, Texas borders the larger Mexican city of Nuevo Laredo. If you Google Nuevo Laredo you will see warnings from US Consulates urging Americans not to travel to Nuevo Laredo and pictures of people’s heads blown open. Laredo is the 88th largest city in the country and the largest ethnic group is Hispanic or Latino at 94.9% of the population. Laredo is known as the ‘Gateway City’ or the ‘City Under Seven Flags’ due to it’s time as the capital of the short-lived Republic of the Rio Grande. Laredo’s economy is built around trade with Mexico, but due to the escalating drug wars in the area, Laredo has definitely seen better days.

This weekend I went to a wedding with a man I’ve known for two months. This man has known the groom for roughly the same amount of time. He hadn’t met the bride until the wedding. I had never met either. With all of this being said, you would have thought we all knew each other for a long time.

We stayed at an old Hacienda-style hotel in the middle of what is left of downtown Laredo.
The streets of Laredo look like Mexico.
From the parking garage we watched the long line of people crossing the bridge into the States.
I wore my grandmother’s dress she bought in Acapulco 50 years ago.
The man wore a turquoise ring- one of two artifacts he inherited from his deceased uncle.
The bridal party wore cowboy boots.
We ate carne guisada and watched the sun set over Texas fields and danced and gawked at a tarantula and watched two very in love people marry.

We ate Taco Palenque.

Hipstercrite Life

To He Who Should Not Read My Blog

I don’t write about my social or romantic life on my blog very often, if at all. This blog is not the platform for that- it’s supposed to be a blog about being a fuckin’ hipster, dammit- and in some areas of my life, I’m actually a somewhat private person. I also realize that saying roughly, “Oh hey, I just wrote about you on a public forum for anyone to read!” may or may not have the ability to freak someone out. In addition, it’s rare for me to feel compelled to write about someone- a truth that I’ve commented on before- but I guess, in this instance, that is finally not applicable. I’m writing this tonight because, honestly, it’s what is on my mind lately and being a writer, it would be silly to ignore.

And though I plead with you on a daily basis not to read my blog, you will anyways.

So, here you go.


To He Who Should Not Read My Blog,

I haven’t known you for very long. 

This is a fact we discussed Continue Reading

20-Something, Hipstercrite Life

Try a Little Tenderness


“I haven’t been in love in a long, long time,” she said to herself in the best Otis Redding impression she could muster up. Heightened emphasis on the first “long.” Eight ‘o’s’.

“I haven’t been in love in a loooooooong, long time,” she kept repeating just enough so the purpose behind the sentence meant nothing anymore.

“Hell, I’m not even sure I’ve ever been in love,” she laughs to herself. “I’ve been in infatuation and then something thereafter, I think?”

This prompts her to sing the Rod Stewart song of the same name, but it’s not as enjoyable as her made-up Otis song.

She takes a moment to think back on them all.

It started with Adam. He was the only one to run the course of infatuation, to post-infatuation, to end of the road.

Adam is married and lives in Kansas City and has a second baby on the way. Three weeks after he ended their four year relationship seven years ago, she stopped thinking about him. It scared her how quickly she got over him. It was then she realized how she had been trying to keep a dying connection alive for much too long.

She had moved to a new city and he stayed behind. Their relationship wasn’t important enough to outlast these two truths.

The reason she got over Adam so quickly, the person who helped her do this, will forever remain an important character in the story of her life. A novella could be written on just the Freudian undertones of the short, ugly, but inevitable liaison. However, for now, it will be labeled away as one of the few secrets a woman may have.

In the big city, she dated a handful of men and the little girl in her innocently believed it was all something more than it was. For as self-aware and intuitive she likened herself to be, the truth was, she was completely childlike in her dealing with the opposite sex. Her development arrested by the fact that she grew up with no male figure in her life, and a lack of examples on how a relationship works. What she knew best, what made her most comfortable, was to be inactive player, one who stood in the forefront with a smile and a twinkle, but completely motionless. Though it’s easy to look back and romanticize the histrionics of her dalliances, it was not an enjoyable time in her life. It was a time where she watched tiny chips of her heart float away in the wind.

She watched again and again as she gave a piece of herself to someone who didn’t really want it in the end.

The filmmaker who watched her from behind the camera for six weeks. Studying every nuance of her personality and deciding at some point that he really liked his subject. Or the poet, who lived in the woods, who could open his heart in words, who would hold her close every night, but couldn’t give anything else.

That’s not to say that she didn’t have boys who wanted to take care of her. To give her the world. The problem was, she didn’t want them. They scared her. It was combination of the game being too easy and the idea being completely lost upon her. To not have to grieve for a man, to not have to wait by the window for a father who may or may not show up just seemed… foreign.

She was aware of her actions, but only partially. Over time, she learned to be objective of her behavior in relationships, but not enough to release her.

Unbeknownst to her at the time, leaving the city would bring her closer to that freedom.

She’s 27 now. Years ago she would have been considered an old maid. Now, she’s still carrying the “kid pass”. She’s not really expected to be thinking about settling down or finding the one quite yet. And neither does she want to. She’s focused on her career and her goals. However on certain days, not on days like today, but on days like the one yesterday, where she watched a movie about love conquering all, she thinks, “That’s it! That’s what I want!”

Because at the end of the day, though she may believe love is a privilege, she looks forward to the day it could happen- to me.

20-Something, Hipstercrite Life

When the Flame Faltered

Most of the time she doesn’t think about how she’d like to be in love.

Except for those nights when she watches a movie where the lead characters walk hand-in-hand through Central Park. Or where the man realizes he made a huge mistake and jumps a plane ride back to his love. Or where a couple banter like Tracy and Hepburn. Or where a woman decides that he is the one. Or when someone who may or may not be Cary Grant holds the object of his desire in his arms and won’t let go.

Sometimes the thought enters her mind when she reads a book like Patti Smith’s Just Kids. A tragic love story that causes young women to yearn for the affection of a tortured young man. A man that they can believe in more than themselves. This sort of romantic tale makes her long for Sunday mornings in bed or Saturday nights sitting on the floor and creating.

On the occasional happenstance, she’ll acknowledge the thought when she’s sitting at the train station and sees two people completely lost in one another. Their lips emanating a magnetic field so strong, it’s nearly impossible for them to shy away from one another. She watches them and says, “I had that once…I think.”

So in order not to dwell on the statement above, she tries to eliminate these floating allegories from her peripheral field of view. She subconsciously thinks about her parents’ divorce, she consciously thinks about the heartbreaks before, and she doesn’t question or stir that area that needs to lay dormant in this time of artistic exploration.

However, a person who often questions love is the owner of a tiny part, deep down, trapped behind the cardiac muscle, that is inhabited by a fear that they will be a solitary figure on their journey. And though this part of them secretly revels in this form of stoicism, another piece, a piece that surfaces often without warning, creates a heaviness so penetrating, it often wakes them in the middle of the night or stops them cold in their daily trek.

Just for a minute.
Or ten.

She doesn’t know what she wants, so she can’t really explain the fleeting moments that inspire her to write a paragraph about what she doesn’t have. All that she understands is that there is something missing.