This is not a goddamn ironic mustache. I am not one of those bearded fucks who bitch about being called a “hipster” even though all bearded fucks besides my Uncle Charlie in Minnesota get secret boners in their acid washed at being referred to as “hipster” by other bearded fucks. No, it’s not an ironic mustache, you asshole, it’s mold, so stop asking if I’ve heard the latest German Love 7-inch. I listen to Cold Play. Unlike you, I’ve NEVER been cool. I’ve NEVER had any friends. Ashton fucking Kutcher won’t let me follow his Twitter. The only numbers in my Nokia are my mom and the suicide hotline. And the Christmas sweater? Also not ironic. It’s the only thing that fits after pizza and Buffy night when I forget to take Lactaid and my crisper blows up like an Ethiopian belly. Goddamn, being fat makes me depressed. And not in a Donny Darko way. In a Alzheimer’s unit way.
Do you understand what it’s like to be alone, you iPhone fuck? You curled your bangs in high school and let your polo-wearing boyfriend stick his bio-ween in your ass because you wanted to “wait til marriage.” I bet you played soccer. And after the poofy bangs and belly tees filtered down to band geeks and white trash, you bought a $150 bong with your graduation money from Poppy and Nonny and started introducing yourself by saying, “Heyyy. I’m Indigo. I’ve seen Panic 563 times.” Now that sarongs are only for Indians and white dudes with un-ironic dreadlocks, you shop Urban Outfitters despite knowing that the moneyed fuck who runs that shit sucked Bush Jr’s dunce cap on the ninth hole at Pebble Beach. How can you even fit your testes in that denim testes-pouch, you skinny jeans fuck?
Now you want to know why Angry Fridge is so angry, huh? Do you see my stature, leggy fuck? There’s nothing funny about being under-developed. The last time a girl touched me was at the Halloween party five years ago when that sexy kitten thought I might have a few wine coolers left. And, oh, did she touch me. She had her head in so deep I thought she’d either fallen in love or died, but the next thing I knew there was vomit all over me and a Ninja Turtle and Father Time carried her to the couch and completely fucking ignored me and my vomit hat.
And let’s not even mention the time you brought home the freshman with the fake i.d and the fishnets. Not only did I hear you junk-bumping six inches from me, I had to listen to your fucking pillow talk about growing up poor when I know damn well you’re dad’s on the board at the Yacht Club and your mom says things like “I need a tall non-fat latte.” Cry me a salt flat you fucking liar. At least the nanny loved you.
And now you’re going to judge me??? You’re going to tell me I don’t need this vial of Xanax? That all I need is some omega-3s, a bong hit, and a little strange? Well, fuck you, happy guy. DO YOU SEE THE CIGARETTES ON MY DOOR??? I AM SLOWLY KILLING MYSELF!!!
Just throw that thing in the corner over my head. No, it is not a fucking Olson twin Keffiyah. It’s a fucking dirty blanket so you’ll stop staring at my mold.
Twenty Twenty Hindsight 