Congratulations Bartleby Bonaroo!

Bartleby Bonaroo, fuck you.

Fuck you in your skin tight jeggings.  Fuck you in your vintage Converse shoes purchased at great expense two months ago.  Fuck you with your tube amps and record collection, entirely ironic, scavenged without permission from the homes of family and friends who “won’t miss it.”  Fuck you with your trust fund and your fourteen hour work week at a sandwich shop.  Fuck your shaved pubis and meticulously groomed moustache.  Fuck your trucker hat, your non-prescription glasses, your unwillingness to commit to even the most basic of choices.

Today you’re going to be particularly douchey.  Today you’re going to emerge from your Williamsburg apartment and, while walking to the 7 train so you can go to Union Square, you’re going to shove a sweet little Mexican lady out of your way.  You could just walk around her, but you’re going to give her a big push.  Then you’re loudly going to talk to the dim young woman accompanying you about how you see yourself as anti-racist, and how you’re not that excited for the rally at Union Square because, y’know, NYU kids.

She’ll nod at you without looking up, thumbing through her cell phone, but the sweet old woman, the poor sweet old woman, will have tears welling in her eyes: she, unlike your peers, will recognize how terrible a person you are and, thanks to some amazing magic that all Mexican grandmothers know (and normally utilize to make their grandchildren as cute as possible) she will slowly begin chipping away at the already rocky foundation of privilege you rely on to continue existing in a state of perpetual twat.

Congratulations Bartleby Bonaroo!