  basically, here it is: i don't like ANYTHING anyone else likes--- i live in williamsburg (yes, brooklyn), but i don't like fashion, or contemporary indie-pop, or underground hip-hop. i think it's insulting when upper-middle class northeasterners drink PBR. basically, i think upper-middle class northeasterners are insulting period, and i try to avoid them at all costs.
i HATE hipsters, and yet i live among them, instead of in Yorkville (but could i really live for $425 a month in Yorkville? maybe). they creep me out, i find them vacuous and ammoral hyper-consumers of material goods in a poor city (country, world) and underground culture when they either make 60K plus in graphic design OR live off the fam and make post-feminist panties. however, the hipsters of northeast williamsburg have been very helpful to me during my year-long quest for meaningless sex, and i thank them for it. even if i didn't always "have one". i am a hardcore feminist, but i think burlesque is dumb, but i can have vaginal orgasms. i am a hardcore feminist, anti-racist class-warfare raging sun-ofa-gun, but i only like books by dead white men. i think southern people are less racist that northerners, except when they're burning crosses (sigh). i love animals and i love fried chicken. i find athesists and the religious equally foolish. i read old riot grrrl writs and i wonder what happened to kathleen hanna's brain.
i wish there was a way to express the essense of being a woman in this world without resorting to cliches or qualifiers. i don't think ironic 80's graphics and lesbian auxillary members necessarily make something hip or relavent. i don't think $120 tee-shirts count as a work of art or even personal expression. i love dolly parton non-ironically.
i drink powdered drink non-ironically. i think eating disorders are a crisis of capitalism. it took me 27 years to stop caring what the f*#$ my dress size was. i think polish people are the most wonderful people on earth. it is my deepest wish to become middle class and move to greenpoint. 
