The top signs that you might be a hipster!
The top signs that you might be a hipster!

“Before I get into this, I will admit that although I’m not anywhere near as bad as this list suggests…I am myself a hipster of sorts, as are many, many, many great people that I know. BUT….everyone can laugh at themselves from time to time 😉 Now on to the list!”

A new survey found a majority of Americans have an unfavorable view of hipsters.  And if you have any uncertainty about being one yourself . . .

just check out the Top Signs You’re a Hipster.

You’ve never enjoyed anything enjoyable ever.

There’s no room for a cupcake tattoo between your vanilla shake and banana tattoos.

See how you’re wearing rain boots on a sunny day?  THAT.

Your girlfriend can’t find her skinny jeans . . . because you’re wearing them.

You draw your own comic books about raising your own urban chickens.

You can name all of Mumford’s sons.

You WON’T stay at a Holiday Inn.  You WILL stay at a Neutral Milk Hotel.

You even got that Neutral Milk Hotel reference.

Even your back hair is ironic.

You’re wearing the same watch you did in the fourth grade.

You took a job at Subway just to get one of those “Sandwich Artist” shirts to someday wear ironically.

You have more than one extra small T-shirt featuring the Tootsie Roll owl.

At open mikes, you laugh at anything the brown comedian says because you think he’s Aziz Ansari.

You have a third appendage surgically attached just to have an extra jean leg to cuff.

Even though Coachella’s eleven months away, you already hate the lineup.

You work at a soup kitchen to pick up on fashion tips from hobos.

You just finished a screenplay about a guy who’s writing a screenplay.

You wear a toboggan during the summer, a baseball cap during the winter, and a condescending smirk all year round.

You love “Portlandia”.  Until I start loving “Portlandia”.  Then you stop loving “Portlandia”.

No matter how hot it is, you wear a plaid shirt over six thermals.

Thanks to those skinny jeans, you can actually see blood pump down your thigh veins.

You spend most of your time trying to justify the practicality of your Classical Studies degree, while dusting the “New Releases” shelf at Blockbuster.

You have your own blog all about how blogs are SO over.

You judge the quality of jeans by how quickly their tightness leads to massive blood clots in your thighs.

Despite the stunning authenticity of your trucker hat, you’re actually NOT a seasoned long-haul driver.

You don’t own a single piece of clothing that doesn’t prominently feature Che Guevara.

You’re currently staring directly into the sun, so you can finally damage your eyes enough to get some thick-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses.

You see no hypocrisy in railing against the evils of capitalism, then calling up your parents and begging them to pay your rent.

You immediately give up on any band, the second a single other person hears about them.

You and your L.A. friends plan to spend your summer walking around in wool hats and scarves, discussing how much you despise “affectations.”

You haven’t spoken to your parents since your last birthday, when they cruelly got you a gift certificate to Starbucks, instead of the underground coffee shop on your block.

You actually believe there are real benefits to paying five times the market value for something, just because it has a sticker saying “Certified Organic.”

You just wrote a 50-page discourse on the differences between secondhand stores and thrift shops.

Your ironic mustache has an ironic mustache.

Your apartment isn’t run down and falling apart; it’s “vintage.”

You won’t listen to a band that doesn’t have a mandolin.

You were over this list before it even started.

You think this list has sold out.

You just rolled your own cigarette to light your American Spirit with.

You live in Portland, Silverlake, or Austin.

You wear more mascara than your girlfriend.

You’re not sure if you like Radiohead legitimately, or ironically.

You just ordered sautéed kale with a side of kale chips.

Your obscurity and creepiness are mistaken for “socially awkward and / or constipated.”

Your mood is expressed by the size of your framed glasses . . . the thicker, the more crippling your depression.

Living in a dangerous area of a city does not phase you because you know in a few years, you’ll be surrounded by more harmless hipsters that are pretending to not be hipsters just like you.

Your mustache has more curves than your body.

You re-thrift your thrift store clothes and even they are not up to Goodwill standards.

You have all of The Strokes albums . . . on vinyl.

When you grow up, you aspire to be a barista, record store clerk, or artist.

You enjoy anything with the word “free” in it.  For example:  Free beer, free spirit, free listening, Gluten free.

Do nine out of ten people despise you?  If yes, you’re a hipster.

You often look in the mirror and discover that you have “fedora head.”

You’re uploading black and white pics of James Dean to your Tumblr page as we speak.

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