Sometimes I like to pretend that I am 16 again, and so I do things like listen to The Softies and doodle in a marble notebook. I kept a marble notebook as a journal when I was 16 — I inscribed in it bad, bad poetry, and later, observations and rants on the condition of being a teenager. On one of the ruled lines on the front, written in black sharpie, it said, “The TCBY Chick,” because that is what I came to be called for working at TCBY. The next journal in the series was one of those little recycled-paper deals, with a sticker on the front that featured Ramona Quimby throwing a fit. Next to it is printed, “Rebel Girl,” and in my handwriting on the back, it says, “Yr gonna burn in my hell,” which is a Heavens to Betsy lyric. I was very angered between the ages of 16 and 18.

I spent the weekend with a boy, who coincidentally is featured quite prominently in the teenage-era journals. We went to a dinner party in Greenpoint, then to a loft party in some unknown area of Brooklyn by the Navy Yard. Hipsters were everywhere, including ones that I had gone to college with. Running into fellow SLC alums ranks within the top ten of my worst fears in life. Other highlights of the evening:

• Hanging out with Ben’s friend Sarah, who went to RISD and is a smart girl and makes art with spools of yarn.
• Sharing the last remaining tofu-pup-in-a-blanket with Ben.
• Falling down in the dirt outside the loft party.
• Being driven around Brooklyn in an actual car.
• Watching drunk hipsters open the bathroom door while other drunk hipsters were peeing and then apologize profusely and stagger away.

Speaking of hipsters, according to the freewilliamsburg.com Hipster’s Handbook, I do not qualify as a hipster — despite my lack of job, interest in web design and vegetarianism. It’s the 2% body fat thing that gets me every time. Though being at that party last night is sure to boost my rating.