trend humper

How does one achieve the perfect level of uncaring?

I don't fuckin' know. Who cares?  

Seems easy, right? Wrong bitches!

It may seem easy on paper (or on screen—and take note, I'm only humoring you horrible sticklers for the literal to further emphasize how caring about shit is fucking stupid), but in practice, this is quite possibly the most complicated and involved aspect of one's style. This is not something to slough off at the end of the day—relegated to mingle with your girlfriend's jeans and your crisp, shiny white belt as they lay twisted and shunned like our generations convictions. This shit must permeate your very existence. This is sub-dermal—just below the viscera, nestled in the lumpy, viscous, gelatinous goo of your being. This is something you can't take off.

Yeah, I spent my month's rent at American Apparel to buy a bag full of shit that looks like it was stolen from the set of a Huey Lewis music video but it's no big thing. I only shop there cause it's two blocks from my apartment. I just throw this shit on in the dark when I wake up at noon, hung over from ironically pounding mojito's (I mean, come on ... who really drinks that shit?) and 13 Pabst Blue Ribbons at some back-alley dive bar, in my Ikea-by-way-of-thrift-store outfitted studio apartment.

Convincing, yes?  But, dear friends, truth is, you must care. You must carefully assemble your nonchalance. There's a delicate balance between looking like you don't give a shit and looking like a filthy disease bag. The goal is to teeter on the edge—draw the attention of those around you who may, initially, glance over with contempt searing their eyes as they suck in a stuttered breath, careful not to breath the same air as you: some grubby hobo-looking blight on the property value of this or that trendy neighborhood—only to realize, hey, he looks like a festering pile of shit but there's something there in his gait, his demeanor, his candor that is too carefree to suggest chronic alcoholism or homelessness. Also, if I'm not mistaken, those hermetically sealed pants were just featured on an episode of I'm cooler than you. Ya see, even if you were butt ass naked, you still need to be a veritable black-hole of uncaring. 

Yeah, I'm nakes... but whatevs... 

You gotta wear it in the eyes—or slathered across an ennui-slackened countenance. Your goddamn nuts could suddenly explode and you would have to keep strolling along, unfazed.

Fucking nuts. Fuck those things anyway, just hanging there all wrinkly and dumb.

This, my friends, is your most essential accessory (not the nuts)--an all encompassing and somewhat abrasive aloofness. Shit! With practice, one day you'll change your ring tone to the sound of someone shrugging—your views on war and oil spills and politics will all be condensed into one, barely perceptible roll of the eyes—you'll tow your Prius behind your Hummer tossing Taco Bell wrappers into the wind, smoking Organic American Spirits with a baby in the passenger seat—the people around you will bleed together, melding like rain-soaked clay into one gigantic heap of suddenly apparent mediocrity. But all this is good.  You know why?  Cause people suck. 

This is anti-posturing—a detached hubris bordering on the comatose. One step above dead. People should fear your vapid stare—as though they were gazing into the abyss—nearly touching a cosmic unknown—an emptiness so expansive it threatens to swallow all those caught in its darkened wake. Allow me to illustrate with a hypothetical interaction between the callously aloof and your run of the mill mall-going idiot.

Idiot:  “Hey man.”

Callously Aloof:  “(nearly imperceptible shifting of the eyes)”

I:  “What'cha doing?”

CA:  “(shrugs)”

I:  “You going to that party tonight?”

CA:  “(heavy exhale—as though this interaction is completely exhausting—followed by the slowest blink imaginable—also, absently cleaning the nails or chewing on cuticles is acceptable)”

I:  “Uh... cool. You hungry? Wanna get some food or something?”

CA:  “(if it's possible, you should fall asleep)”

If the person speaking to you doesn't implode at that point, you're doing something wrong.

So there you have it. I hope you've learned something.  Or not.  Don't care.