Hipsters Patrick and Brian. It's Patrick's birthday, and to celebrate Brian wore the American flag. Obvi.
Last weekend was magical. I headed to Brooklyn by way of the Lower East Side to celebrate the impending nuptials of one Miss Katie Poff. We ate barbecue, we went shopping, we laid out by the pool, we even watched some episodes of Laguna Beach on DVD.
After watching the sun set over the East River and behind the skyline of Manhattan we did some shots of Goldschlager and headed out to the bars. It was at this exact moment that I was almost rundown by a violent hipster bike-rider who was angry that I had so brazenly taken my stroll into the bike lanes of the unreasonably wide Williamsburg roadways. “Bikers’ rights!” he yelled as he whizzed past me, ringing a bell situated on top of his handlebars. “I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to exist anywhere!” I screamed, adjusting the bachelorette masquerade mask on top of my head and refusing to move. My indignation then led me to actually run into a swerving hipster who just so happened to get caught up in the fracas. “That was dick of me, I’m sorry,” I told her. She just shook her head. Let the hipster hating begin.
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