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To Eat Goulash or Not To Eat Goulash

I was supposed to go camping this past weekend. I was holey (yes, holey) prepared to go. Friday, I went to the Outpost, where I borrowed a tent, two sleeping bags and a lantern (I’m scared s—less of the dark).

I had even laid out my best faux-flannel shirt, a pair of Smartwool socks I wore with Chacos back in my I-wear-what-I-recently-convinced-my-mother-to-by-me-at-the-local-head-shop-and-smoke-bud-while-listening-to-Dick’s-Picks-Grateful-Dead days and my over-priced, unnecessarily rugged Timberland hiking boots.

I lied to everyone who I had optimistically and proudly informed throughout the week (“I’m going camping this weekend” meant “Pay attention to how poetic I am”). I never went camping.

Nope. Instead I spent Saturday night drinking at a house party that culminated in a full-scale fraternity fight I was largely responsible for. Way above the scene. Though I was drinking PBR and wearing skinny jeans.

I’m tired. Exhausted. Being me is a hassle—I have to shop at obscure clothing boutiques, wake up early enough to go to Bean Traders for my artiste-trademarked recyclable coffee cup and follow enough blogs to make references to sparsely known up-and-comers in both the music and movie—I mean film—scene.

You think your midterms were hard, well let me tell you: reading Paste in addition to your textbooks is difficult, especially when you have to spend an extra 30 minutes walking in and out of The Regulator hoping someone will notice as they drive down Ninth Street.

While you all look forward to spring break in your sunny tropical locale lounging on the beach, I will be trudging up to the City where I’ll wander around the LES, eat goulash at Veselka, read Paul Auster in a coffee shop and make sure Hipster Runoff isn’t lying to me.


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