Lonely, Media, My favorites

Diaries of a Douche (Pt. 1)

It’s interesting that “Douche” now has a pretty specific definition whereas the definition of “Hipster” is as broad as people’s hatred. I can no longer agree to hate hipsters because I have no idea what that person is talking about. When they say hipster they could mean someone with ironic facial hair and women’s pants, or they could mean someone in sarcastically corporate shirt and a sense of entitlement. Or they could simply mean that person that looked at them funny on the subway and made them feel self-conscious. “Douche” or “Douchebag” on the other hand has transformed from being a blanket term for people found dislikable to being a very specific group of human scum. I like to look at scum. Here is part one of things that were written on receipts in my wallet while I was waiting for my plane watching these “Douchebags.”

He spent 25 minutes picking out the perfect shudder shades from the corner kiosk. This trip had been a week in the making and he finally had gained the courage to buy them by himself. He tried each pair on by placing the dark glass and plastic in front of his eyes eve though he knew that once they were his they would habitate the back of his head. Even though he was comfortable wearing them backwards in public, he was scared the kiosk attendant who wasn’t paying attention to him would judge him unfairly.

He picked cream green. A color he would tell his friends he picked because it reminded him of radioactivity. This would supplement the identity he had created within that group as the guy who still liked ninja turtles and always played as the alien in Halo 3. Really he picked cream green because it reminded him of the lime creamsicles his mother used to give him when he came in upset because all the other kids had picked on him during the squirt gun fight.

His mom knew that he liked lime best so she used to make him eat orange or cherry after dinner so that there was an excess of lime for when he most needed comfort.

When asked why he wore his glasses on the opposite side of his cranium than was the norm as opposed to simply perching them on top of his head when not in use he told people that it was because he didn’t wan the plastic frames to fuck up his perfectly gelled hair that nearly acted as plastic itself. This wasn’t true. When his closest friends asked him the same question, knowing that he never wore the frames correctly, he said it was because he liked the idea of having eyes in the back of his head. This wasn’t true. He didn’t know why he did it.

He wore them backwards because he saw someone do it once and thought they looked happy – in a way that he wanted to be happy. So he copied all the traits he saw in an attempt to be that happy. This resulted in him thinking he was happy because he had done all he could do to be so. He was happy.


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