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Location: Seemingly anywhere PBR is had

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And I just want all of you to know: you are all very hot. Every Pitchfork-reading, farmer's-market-shopping, liberal-arts-college-educated inch of you.I know I can never be with you, cute hipster girl. My bicycle has not only brakes, but multiple gears. It is, in fact, a hybrid, the fanny pack of the bicycle world. I am entirely free of tattoos. My facial hair is patchy at best, so I am unable to grow a beard. I live west of I-35. I am not a member of a lo-fi shoegaze indie pop band that sometimes gigs at Progress Coffee, and indeed I can't play any musical instruments. I can't even play the ukulele, the fanny pack of the indie rock world. I find Wes Anderson somewhat tedious, and I have not read a single issue of McSweeney's in anything even vaguely resembling its entirety. My jeans do not hug my legs, and I do not have a single stylishly retro vest or hat in my closet. I rarely listen to KUT or KVRX. Although I own a Moleskine, I have to be honest with you — I don't really write in it that much. I went to the Chuck Close show at the Austin Museum of Art and I'm pretty sure I didn't get it. I shop at HEB and not Wheatsville.My appreciation of Hall and Oates is entirely non-ironic. I occasionally eat meat.But the biggest problem, hipster girl of Austin, is that you're just too intimidating in your good taste and vaguely-counterculture-but-not-threateningly-eccentric hotness for me to ever work up the pluck to talk to you. I know I will never be cool enough. Le sigh.But that's okay. You still brighten my vinyl happy hours at Waterloo Records and my Shangri-La visits. Thank you, hipster girl. You rock my world, and you make it look so easy. Carry on with your Bianchi Pista self.