To Hipsters…

“I need an idea for a story,” Will declared from atop his barstool.

“You’re the writer,” Andrew replied.  “Think of something.”

“Can’t,” Will said, frowning into his pint of bitters.  “I’ve been staring at a blank page all week, and I haven’t come up with a bloody thing.”

Andrew shrugged, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling where the accumulation of water stains was slowly building into a brown thunder-cloud of filth.  “Write about a guy who can’t think of anything to write about then,” he offered.

Will’s frown deepened, and he shook his head.  “Won’t work, mate.  No one wants to read a story about a guy who can’t think of a story.”

“I guess you’re right and proper fucked then.”

“Come on,” Will pleaded.  “You’ve got to have something.”

A grin twisted Andrew’s mouth, and he chuckled as he signaled the barman for another round.  “Write about a bloke who solicits his friends for ideas.”

“Too meta.”

“Bollocks,” Andrew snorted.  “The whole bleedin’ world’s gone hipster, and they love pseudo-ironic, self-referential, masturbatory shite.  They’ll think it’s brilliant.”

“You’re right,” Will said after a moment’s consideration, raising his glass in mock salute. “To hipsters…  and their appalling lack of taste.”


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