Stuff Hipsters Hate: When Their Friends Go to Law School

from http://lizbert.tumblr.com

"Janelle: Hey dude, Jason is having a fucking awesome party tonight at some loft in Bushwick. Wanna get there early? Like 1 a.m. or somethin’?

Tyron: Sorry, lady. I have to study.

Janelle: What the fuck do you have to study for? You’ve been outta school for five years…

Tyron: The LSATs.

Janelle. Are you shitting me?

Tyron: Naw, I mean, this whole poet thing isn’t really working out. I mean, no one wants to pay me to write, so I figured I would, like, learn a trade.

Janelle: Are you going to be an LSAT tutor…?

Tyron: No, asshole. I’m going to law school.

Janelle: What the fuck? When have you ever expressed interest in the law? You don’t even like motherfucking Law & Order—and there’s like six versions of that show to choose from.

Tyron: Well, lawyers make a lot of money, which is something I don’t have. I can’t shelve books at an indie bookstore and do poetry slams forever, Jan. I can’t. I need stuff like, I dunno, a real bed. A room with walls. Last week I brought this chick home and she took one look at my so-called room—a shower curtain and bed sheets do not a bedroom make—and announced that she had to get up early. She’s a fucking freelancer. How many freelancers do you know who have to “get up early”? I can’t deal with this anymore, dude. I need to eat. I need to get laid. I need cash. I mean, yeah, I would probably have to wear a suit year-round to cover up my sleeve tats, and, sure, I would have to shave more often and probably move to Manhattan and drink with I-bankers at shitty places like Blondies, and I would most definitely have to pretend to get excited about sports and shit—but I can do it. I can suck it up. I’m almost 30. It’s time to get serious.

Janelle: Dude, you’re not going to get into law school. I mean, that’s just a stone cold fucking science fact.

Tyron: Why the fuck not? I got like fucking straight A’s in college.

Janelle: Well, for one, you majored in abstract sculpture and Victorian poetry, and two, the most experience you’ve had with the legal system was that time you got arrested for breaking into that construction site, getting smashed and passing out in your own vomit.

Tyron: Dude. That was like a fucking minor offense. Like, you know, a misnomer.

Janelle: Um. I rest my case."

xoxo,
Rebel

Attack of the Body Snatcher!

Just so no one's confused... this is a repost from the Net:

"This is an explanation to those friends and family who have experienced mysterious switches of their body parts. This effect is especially noticeable in January.

You may have read of the scare story about the man whose kidneys were stolen while he was passed out. Well, read on. While the kidney story was an urban myth, my story is true - it occurs to me practically every day.

My thighs were stolen from me during the night a few years ago. It was just that quick. I went to sleep in my body and woke up with someone else's thighs.

The new ones had the texture of cooked oatmeal. Who would have done such a cruel thing to legs that had been mine for years? Whose thighs were these and what happened to mine? I spent the entire summer looking for my thighs. Finally, hurt and angry, I resigned myself to living out my life in jeans and Sheer Energy pantyhose.

Then, just when my guard was down, the thieves struck again. My butt was next.

I know it was the same gang, because they took pains to match my new rear end (although badly attached at least three inches lower than my original) to the thighs they stuck me with earlier.

Now, my rear end complimented my legs, lump for lump. Frantic, I prayed that long skirts would stay in fashion.

It was two years ago when I realized my arms had been switched.

One morning I was fixing my hair and I watched horrified but fascinated as the flesh of my upper arms swung to and fro with the motion of the hairbrush.

This was really getting scary. My body was being replaced one section at a time. How clever and fiendish.

Age? Age had nothing to do with it. Age is supposed to reap, unnoticed, something like maturity.

NO, I was being attacked repeatedly and without warning. In despair I gave up my T-shirts. What could they do to me next? My poor neck disappeared more quickly than the Thanksgiving turkey it now resembled.

That's why I decided to tell my story. I can't take on the medical profession by myself.

Women of the world, wake up and smell the coffee. That really isn't plastic that those surgeons are using. You KNOW where they are getting those replacement part, don't you?

The next time you suspect someone has had a face ' lifted' , look again. Was it lifted from you? I think I finally found my thighs...and I hope Cindy Crawford paid a really good price for them!

This is not a hoax. This is happening to women in every town every night. WARN YOUR FRIENDS.

Yours alarmed,

Peggy E. Leg"

Lock Your Doors! The Old Lady May Be Comin' For YOU

Just so no one's confused... this is a repost from the Net:

"Do you know this person? She's moved in without me knowing and I believe she's here for life.




Please be careful. This person has found her way into my house and could also go to yours.

A very weird thing has happened. A strange old lady has moved into my house. I have no idea who she is, where she came from, or how she got in. I certainly did not invite her. All I know is that one day she wasn't there, and the next day she was.

She is a clever old lady and manages to keep out of sight for the most part, but whenever I pass a mirror, I catch a glimpse of her. And, whenever I look in the mirror to check my appearance, there she is hogging the whole thing, completely obliterating my gorgeous face and body. This is very rude! I have tried screaming at her, but she just screams back.

The least she could do is offer to pay part of the rent, but no. Every once in a while, I find a $5 bill stuck in a coat pocket, or some loose change under a sofa cushion, but it is not nearly enough. I don't want to jump to conclusions, but I think she is stealing money from me. I go to the ATM and withdraw $100, and a few days later, it's all gone! I certainly don't spend money that fast, so I can only conclude the old lady is pilfering from me. You'd think she would spend some of that money to buy wrinkle cream. And money isn't the only thing I think she is stealing.

Food seems to disappear at an alarming rate-especially the good stuff like ice cream, biscuits, and sweets. She must have a real sweet tooth, but she'd better watch it, because she is really packing on the pounds. I suspect she realises this, and to make herself feel better, she is tampering with my scale to make me think I am putting on weight, too.

For an old lady, she is quite childish. She likes to play nasty games, like going into my wardrobes when I'm not home and altering my clothes so they don't fit. And she messes with my files and papers so I can't find anything. This is particularly annoying since I am extremely neat and organised.

She has found other imaginative ways to annoy me. She gets into my mail, newspapers, and magazines before I do and blurs the print so I can't read it. And she has done something really sinister to the volume controls on my TV, radio, and telephone. Now, all I hear are mumbles and whispers. She has done other things -- like make my stairs steeper, my vacuum heavier and all the knobs and taps harder to turn. She even made my bed higher so that getting into and out of it is a real challenge.

Lately, she has been fooling with my groceries before I put them away, applying glue to the lids, making it almost impossible for me to open the jars. She has taken the fun out of shopping for clothes. When I try something on, she stands in front of the dressing room mirror and monopolises it. She looks totally ridiculous in some of those outfits, plus, she keeps me from seeing how great they look on me.

Just when I thought she couldn't get any meaner, she proved me wrong. She came along when I went to get my picture taken for my driver's license, and just as the camera shutter clicked, she jumped in front of me!

I hope she never finds out where you live."