The Poor Boy

I had a brief phase in college where I grew bored with the physical attractiveness of my Orange County peers. I envied my girlfriend who went to FIDM, because she was surrounded with LA hipsters and artsy-fartsy freaks. That fascination with trendy, scene kids quickly dwindled given my experience with Alejandro.

Alejandro is his real name. If by some twist of fate he stumbles upon this, I want him to know I am talking about him.

Dear Alejandro, thanks to you I avoid all hipster weirdos. Looking homeless with your tattered clothes and excessive facial hair is one notch above being homeless. Our encounter was traumatic, but down the road I’ll throw a nickel in your Starbucks cup on Santa Monica Blvd.
Love, Ella.

I met Alejandro in the winter. Cold weather is prime time for indie kids to layer their thrift store finds. Alejandro had it all: a fedora, scarf, sweatshirt, peacoat, tight jeans, hole-y shoes, and thick eyeglasses (probably non-prescription). I don’t understand why these people pretend wearing 20 accessories is actually effortless? You know what’s effortless? Me wearing a dress and heels with no bra/panties to a hockey game. Suck on that scenester scum.

Ale wanted to take me to a Lebanese restaurant and I delightfully accepted. At dinner, I ordered my typical favorite: labneh, pita chips, and lemonade. Of course pretentious Alejandro criticized me, “Why would you order anything other than falafal, tabouleh, or baba ghanouj?” Well Alejandro, if I don’t know how to spell it, I don’t eat it.

When the bill came, I reached for my card. At that time, splitting the bill was my way of saying, “I’m independent, I don’t follow traditional norms, I’m so cool!”
Ale jumped at the opp to say, “Oh I left my card in the car, can you cover me?” I did, because I didn’t want to get arrested for dine-n-ditch. That would be shady.

I should have just walked taxi’d home, peace out. But I had no backbone, so I hopped in his POS car (I think it was a ’78 Datsun). The backseat was f-ing disgusting.   His had about 17 empty cigarettes packs and Doritos bags. I wouldn’t be surprised if rodents resided back there. My car’s backseat has 4 pairs of emergency high-heels, a handle of Smirnoff, back-up mascara, and VS body sprays.
My backseat = messy, his = dirty. See the difference?

Before taking me home, he stopped to buy his fav, exclusive German beer, not available at your average liquor store [eye roll]. I wasn’t 21 and had to wait (in that nasty car!) in the BeerHaus parking lot.  He bought 15 individual bottles/brands, and didn’t offer me one. And woah buddy, when did your credit card suddenly appear? You can spend your money and (more importantly my time) at this beer haus, but can’t buy dinner? You frugal, stingy, douchebag! I never confronted him, I said nothing and ignored his future phone calls. Maybe he’ll find a art model with dirty fingernails to accommodate his lifestyle.

Come to think of it, I bet his name was Alex and he changed it sound more exotic.

Lessons to Learn:

• Are we in Holland? Then don’t go Dutch, this is America, bitch.
• If he’s broke, don’t try to fix him- even if you have a trust fund. Guys who let you pay have issues. I promise, it’s not worth it.
• Your time is more valuable than your money, don’t let a guy waste either of yours.
• and this picture below is why I do not like hipsters.