We get it, women of New York, your black leather jacket with overtly open zipper and slightly askew collar ensures everyone in the bar knows you are not to be fucked with. You are not the type of girl who owns a record player. You don't pose for pictures. None of your candles are scented. You wait at least two drinks before discreetly referencing the time you got mugged on the way to a friend's art gallery opening and still made it on time. You only eat at restaurants with less than forty Yelp reviews. You won't even visit your roommate from college in Astoria because there's a rumor it might be getting a Whole Foods. You have a tattoo that shows your disdain for Bluetooth devices. You only hang out with your close friends because it's impossible to have an intelligent conversation with anyone else. You call people pussies. And cunts.
Did that girl just call that dude a cunt because he still listens to Dirty Projectors?
Yeah, I heard that too.
I think it was the girl in the disheveled black leather jacket who is clearly not to be fucked with.
Your grayscale wardrobe is a knife. Color is for girls who sing karaoke. For tourists from LA. For virgins. Virgins wear yellow. You're not a virgin. You don't sing karaoke. People who sing karaoke have no depth. You're mysterious. Timeless. Macabre. Color is tacky. It's for people who go to happy hour. For asshole hipsters who take ironic trips to Disneyland. Color is for pussies.
But this anti-anti-anti conformity only strengthens the perception that your lack of personal identity is leaving you a recursive mess of contrived expression. It's boring. It's boring and unoriginal and it's discrediting the very image of volition you're trying so hard to manufacture. And you are behaving like a malleable child who is terrified of appearing vulnerable. You're a suburban pot hookup flashing a stemmy eighth like it's the head of a wanted man. And your black leather jacket is the aftermarket auto parts sticker-covered rear windshield of your dropped '03 Honda Civic.
Just as color will not label you as a tourist, your patina'd brass necklace with AK-47 pendant won't distinguish you from your neighbor who thinks Brooklyn would be a fun place to live. The only way to convince us you are a badass is by not trying to convince us of anything. To not give a shit what we think instead of attempting to instill a belief in us.
Put on your big girl pants and create something that's your own. Sing along to an Outkast song playing in a coffee shop. Take a trip to Niagara Falls. Emphatically tell a story. Get yourself a Chipotle burrito. We won't think you're a pussy.