If I only hate one group of people One of the many groups of people I hate are emo hipster teenagers and their overly expressed and equally unfounded angst.
Seriously, how hard could life be at 18? In between riding their skateboards to Hot Topic and incorporating Avril Lavigne lyrics into haiku, what could they possibly have to complain about?
On one particularly hot Los Angeles night in July, six hipsters sat themselves in my section, all clad in bulky sweaters, all held hostage by their pencil jeans, all conforming to a preconceived notion of nonconformity.
"What may I bring you kids to drink?"
Did everyone take their uppers before sitting in my section? Because I won't be doing your fragile egos any favors.
The female ring leader, a depressed hipster meets I-wish-I-were-Anna-Paquin in True Blood, looked at me (the closest thing to an authority figure) and immediately took a tone of rebellion.
"We're waiting," she told me.
"Oh, are you expecting more people?" I asked.
"No. We're just waiting."
And wait they did. In the time it would have taken to fake comprehension of a Jack Kerouac novel, I kept my distance as they texted, glared, rolled their eyes, and thought "Why me, non-existent God?"
Finally I strolled back up to the table, full of sunshine.
"Hey guys!! Are we still waiting, or is anyone thirsty?"
Not-Anna-Paquin's long-haired unisex love interest took pause from his/her self-loathing to request "a soda."
"Any particular soda?" I asked.
"a......Coke," s/he whispered. I couldn't hear a word it said and asked it three times to repeat itself.
"A. COKE." Not-Anna-Paquin shouted (finally, she was sticking it to The Man).
Fast forward to 30 more minutes of emoting, and no ordering, and Not-Anna-Paquin summoned me to the table with a faint raise of her arm.
"There was a hair in the Coke," she said of the unisex love companion's beverage.
Any chance that vile follicle came from your young lover's head as your were picking out strands to use as dental floss, you stupid bitch?
"Oh my, that's rough. Let me bring you another Coke." I said.
"Actually. We're leaving."
And with that, they exited the restaurant single file, except for Not-Anna-Paquin, who comforted the ambiguous object of her non-affection. I assume they viewed the hair-in-drink experience as yet another way in which the world was constantly trying to keep them down.
And even though it was brief, I was thrilled to give them something to complain about.