Day One: Chbosky who?

At age 19, I have finally come to a realization and have come to terms with what that realization entails: I am, for all intents and purposes, a hipster. I cringe upon hearing myself utter that phrase, but after making fun of so-called "hipsters" for so long, it has finally dawned on me that so many of the things I criticize them for, I actually do myself.
For example, the practice of "upcycling-" the euphemistic term used to describe salvaging old things and using them in daily life. This ranges from vintage T-shirts and bags, to playing vinyls, to drinking out of mason jars. Right now, I am living on campus for summer classes, and as I look around my dorm room, I notice immediately a rusty beach chair that was probably purchased in 1993; a leather shoulder bag that my grandmother gave me; and, unfortunately, two mason jars that I regularly drink and eat out of. With such glaring evidence, how could I have ever denied my hipster-ness? Allow me to make my case.
Take the beach chair. Every weekend that I lived in North Carolina as a child, my sisters and I would take the golf cart down to the beach. Often, we would take with us a boogie board, some sand castle building materials, and a small beach chair. Thus, I present the rusty, child-sized beach chair as Evidence A, in defense of what I am veiling my hispterosity as: nostalgia. When my parents claimed they were throwing it away during their recent move, how could I let them do it? Tossing it in the dumpster would be tossing my childhood on the sandy dunes of Emerald Isle along with it!
Evidence B: the shoulder bag. People frequently ask me which vintage store I went to and purchased this bag. I tell them: "My grandmother's attic." You see, I use it because it is a part of my family heritage, a piece of my past and my family of yesteryear.
Evidence C: the mason jars. I am allowed to use them because I am from Ohio (kind of). That is, I live in Ohio, my mother grew up in Ohio, my grandmother grew up in Ohio, yadda yadda yadda. And I'm not talking "one of the three C's" Ohio--I'm talking good ol' New Carlisle. Never heard of it? It's in Bethel Township. Never heard of that? It's near Tipp City. Never heard of that? You get my point. Plus, my mother and grandmother have always had numerous mason jars around so that they could jar the green beans my grandfather grows, or the jam made from the concord grapes out back, or for homemade apple butter. So who blames me for using an old one for personal use?
Okay, fine; my case is hogwash. Nostalgia is hipster.
The first step on the road to recovery is admitting you have a problem. Step 1: done. But before I admit myself to Exclusive Rehab, why not have fun with it? Join me as I attempt to live the life of the hipster from A to the letters after Z that are too obscure for the mainstream. Tonight, begin my journey by picking up the hipster's diary: The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. I would listen to Arcade Fire while I read, but ever since they won a Grammy, they're too obvious.
Mata! (That's Japanese for later- bye is so cliche.)
Tucker