Those Dinosaurs are Hipsters

Hipster dinosaurs, hipster dinosaurs, hipster dinosaurs! The archeological phenomenon represented one of my greatest creative streaks in years. I like to coin this time (no, shit), “the hipster dinosaur era.” From February until June, short stories were written, literature was analyzed and hipster dinosaur drawings sprang to life. Unfortunately, the cruel heat of Riverside aimed its villainous sunrays at my right brain.

“Shit, fuck, shit, my brain is fried, my brain is fried,” I said to myself.

“Kentucky Fried Brain Cell” led to the clogging of artistic thoughts. Hipster dinosaurs hibernated. Angry New Yorkers took an Ambien. The little gay elves, which churned out stories, went on strike. The sunny summer of grey bleakness commenced. Tumbleweeds, blank Microsoft word documents, and too much TV plagued a typically intellectual existence. Along with writer’s block came rejection letters, ninety-one to be exact. I was dying an artistic death.

Sitting at the local coffee shop (because, duh, this is Coffee & Cardigans), I would start writing a story, then watch it die a miserable death. Long drives with music blasting were attempts to ignite creativity, yet they failed. Eventually, hipster dinosaurs rose from slumber. New Yorkers wanted kawffee. The sleepy elves returned from their strike. My writer’s block had burst in a glittery spectacle. An idea came to me and it worked. “The Great artistic draught of 2018” had come to an end. The villagers (who resided in my head) just needed a holiday.

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