Welcome to Hipsterville

I have recently fulfilled the utmost New York artist cliché by moving to a loft in Brooklyn, and though my French friends back home are making fun of me for my lack of originality, I couldn’t care less. Bushwick is awesome. If conforming to a social cliché means a massive loft and cool neighbours in a psychedelic graffiti art world, then bring it on.

I was a little apprehensive at first because the street art and brick warehouses did take a rather eerie turn at night, and the thought of all those hipsters lurking in the shadows made me want to run for my life. Once I got better acquainted with the autochthons, I managed to see beyond their strange manners and appearance and came to realise that their spectacled heart was as soft and gentle as yours and mine.

After merely a week, I was already feeling the urge to eat organic kale and wear mismatched clothing. I have been complaining about everything even more lately, which goes to prove that French and Hipster is a dreary combination. I have also started using pompous words like “dreary” or “pompous” in my vocabulary. Am I doomed?