A HIPSTER ON HIS OWN

The Story of Starbucks

By: Green Draft

“Ugh!” I exclaimed coolly. I gently slammed the screen of my MacBook shut. This was getting futile. How would my work ever be understood by the plebian masses? Perhaps it was useless. I stood up angrily, but quickly regained my cool composure. It wouldn’t be cool to show emotion, I had to save it all for my masterpiece. Starbucks was empty of the ignorant masses, which allowed my chi to flow straight into my work. I walked up to the only barista I could stand. She was pretty, but she didn’t try to be; it was great.

“Hey,” I said, “can I get a venti chai mocha soy latte?” I asked ironically. She looked at me with her soulful eyes, but in an ironic manner.

“Sure thing, Chase,” she said ironically. We were so ironic it was ironic. She began to grind the beans. The other baristas didn’t have the same bean grinding skill as she did, it was cool. It made Starbucks just un-ironic enough to be ironic.

While I waited for my brew, I sat back down in front of my MacBook and opened the lid. My manuscript was there as it normally was. At a weighty 500 page coming of age story of a truly original character, there was no way the plebs could miss this. It almost brought a laugh, but it didn’t. I readjusted my fedora as it was tilting too far to the left. When it resumed its normal place, everything felt right.

The barista placed my brew in front of me. She didn’t smile, I didn’t thank her. We knew our relationship. She was a wage-slave and I was born to be free. We could never be together. I took a sip, it was alright. Thunder cracked heavily outside, much like the roiling storm of my psyche. The manager walked in from the back room. Both the barista and I rolled out eyes. Here we go, I thought.

“Okay, punk. We are shutting down for the night because of the storm. I know we’ll see you tomorrow,” she ordered.

“Whatever,” I toned. I closed the lip on my masterpiece one more time. With a quick turn, my black and white hair blocked my eyes for just a second. Thinking quickly, I grabbed my coffee brew and strode out the door.

“They don’t understand me,” I muttered. Rain poured against my fedora, it would probably be soiled soon. My black and white plaid fedora matched my hair perfectly. IT stood in contrast with my person. I wasn’t black and white, it was so ironic. My grey plaid shoes were more like me. The only things I wore for comfort was my red sleeves with green tips. So what if I was wearing a long sleeve shirt? The sleeves stood out, like I did.

Rain began to slick my foot long goatee. Clearly Mother Nature didn’t know how long it took to style this perfection. With a crack, lightning struck a light post ten meters away. Sparks blew across the parking lot. I remained calm; clearly this was a test of my resolve. Lightning struck a car 5 meters away. I could feel the intense heat. It was stronger than the heat from my MacBook after a day of intense drafting. The heat of the bolt fogged my square glasses. I started to walk away calmly.

One more bolt struck, hitting me square on the fedora.

I wasn’t dead. As if lightning would dare to kill me. Did it know who I was? I looked around; I was in some sort of plain. Green grass went up and over hills. A tree or two dotted the landscape. It would have appreciated it more if it was more hip.

“Can’t lay around, I have to finish my manuscript,” I said, reaching for my laptop. It was gone; my new hooves hit nothing but an empty space containing no MacBook. I looked at my new hooves, horrified.

“WHERES MY MACBOOK?” I screamed out. I fell to the ground sobbing. I didn’t care about my image right now; I had lost my life’s work. This whole thing was a sick joke. Sure, I was a pony thing now, but I LOST MY MASTERPIECE.

“M-maybe I can just start over,” I said, trying to console myself. I steadied myself as best I could. I took a look at my body again. I was light blue with wings. I had my blue and green sleeves on. My hooves were capped with familiar grey plaid shoes. I had my glasses, my fedora, and a black and white mane and tail. Even my goatee was there.

“Hallelujah,” I exclaimed ironically. I could feel the incredible loss of my manuscript fading. Yes, I could just write a new one. I got onto my four new feet. I tried to trot around, ironically of course.

“This isn’t so bad; in fact, this is incredibly hip AND ironic. No one else is a horse like me.” I realized there was a purple pony staring at me. She had a pink stripe in her mane. Something small poked out of her hair. She must be a unicorn. I knew this because I had been reading girl’s stories ironically. She approached me, but something was strange. It was like she was walking… on purpose. Not for any irony. Strange, I thought. She stopped about a meter from me. I saw a few other ponies on the hill, none of them were of note. This pony had huge pony balls to walk non-ironically.

“Hello,” she said, “Were just over the hill playing when we head the sobs of a mare over here. Is everything okay?”

“I do not cry like a mare,” I demanded. She looked taken aback.

“Well, okay then.” She turned to leave. One important thought stuck to me head.

“Hey, little miss purple, where can I get a cup of coffee around here?” I asked.

“I don’t think anypony in Ponyville sells coffee.”

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