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The plight of the basic bitch
I laughed really hard when I watched College Humour’s video about a girl being diagnosed with an incurable case of Basic Bitch. After all, I only bought a Starbucks Pumpkin Spice latte once when they first came out years ago and literally spat my first mouthful into the garbage before tossing the rest. I only drink dark roast when I’m at Starbucks. I’m obviously a #BadBitch. But I started to feel a little squirmy, which is weird, because smugness suits me generally. (Cut-eye brings out my bone structure.)
Patting myself on the back for lack of obvious basic-ness chafes a little—much like how awkward I felt snarking at the Feist-loving middlebrow a few years back—because here’s the thing: I find it almost impossible to click past a crappy rerun of Friends (the one where Pheobe runs? Come on.) I post Instagram pictures of tulips like it’s my job (after consulting my employer, it is, in fact, not my job.) Sure, I’ve never worn Uggs (thank the shearling Gods) and I hated the Sex and the City movies, but I love Converse and brunch and goddamn flowers and I refuse to let those simple pleasures go. Because what will the cool-police come for next? Life’s too short to give up eggs benny for fear of being labeled basic (although #basicbenny should be trending huge by now.) Editing all the “basic” pleasures from my life (or trying to explain that yes, I had a Juicy Couture tracksuit, but that was more than 15 years ago and it was COOL THEN) is worse than being basic: it’s being basically afraid. And that, friends, is more pathetic than any hashtag. Read more: Debunking the 5 biggest fashion myths Lazy luxe: Today’s sweatshirt culture The 20+ book you need to read before you die