As anybody who ever reads this blog with any frequency knows, the authoress Aimee Plumley has all but completely neglected to carry on her very passionate work of talking extravagant bucketfuls of shit about hipsters. I personally think this is a huge mistake on her part, therefore I intend to rectify this problem and start the wheels turning once again, though perhaps in a different direction. Because honestly, she did have quite a decent readership for such a nasty rag.

Also, because I know it gave her great joy to pen these stinging little vignettes, I hope that by showing her up this way, she may (like the vindictive little girl that she is) become jealous and decide that she wants to carry on with the blog after all. That is how it has always been with her – she doesn't want it until somebody else does. Bitch.

As it stands though, Aimee (my sister) has fallen into a childish stupor. All she does is prance around the apartment with a sweating tumbler of Wild Turkey in her hand and a chewed-up pencil behind her ear (she doesn't even write with a pencil), going on and on about her novel (of which I have yet to see any evidence), her editor, her agent – (Aimee, are you listening?) I have had enough. Which is why I've stolen your blog username and password, and hijacked your 'forum.'

By the way, you might consider hiding this information a little more carefully next time – I found them in a Word file entitled "passwords" (very creative) – where I also found vital information relating to your banking accounts and credit cards, but don't worry, I wouldn't steal from you, you don't make any fucking money anyway.

I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Adam. I am Aimee's older, wiser, more talented, better-looking brother, and I feel it is my duty to drag her from this hallucinatory pedestal she's created for herself and kick her around a little. Plus, I'm unemployed, and currently sleeping on Aimee's couch, which gives me ample opportunity to snoop in her personal belongings during the day while she is at work. Plus, I am drunk and it is the middle of the night. In fact I am sitting at her desk right now, typing on her computer, drinking her booze, smoking her cigarettes (I really wish you would stop smoking menthols), while she is passed out in her bedroom down the hall.

To begin with: regarding all previously published material on this site – most especially the last few entries – which, in my opinion, are horrible pieces of shit, please, I beg of you, do not send email praising her anymore. You might be surprised to learn that she still gets fan mail (yes, I also found the password to your email account), despite the fact that she hasn't written anything decent for almost a year. And it only continues to feed her vampiric ego. If you could only see the self-satisfied sneer that spreads across her face when she reads these messages, you'd know what kind of hell I am expected to endure. Even the little bit of note she has garnered so far – a few interviews, a few mentions – has turned her into a such a insufferable little bitch that I can hardly stand to be in the same room with her for more than a few minutes.

Anyway, enough of this. The following is an open letter to my little sister, in hopes that she will be shaken from her pathetic malaise.

Dearest Aimee,

You know that I love you, and I wish only the best for your future. Having said this, you really should consider therapy. Mom and Dad are doing it, I'm doing it – even Snap (the family dachshund) is doing it. Here's the bottom line: Your drinking is out of control, your apartment is a pigsty and your poor boyfriend is snoring like a foghorn on the couch right behind me. Do you hear what I'm saying, Aimee? Noah is sleeping on the fucking couch! There is definitely something wrong with that. Men are not supposed to get banished to the couch until they're middle-aged and married. I tried to make him to go home, but he insisted on staying, "so he could talk to you when you're fresh."

Of course, you were right. He is a pussy. I don't find this very surprising though, your taste in men has always veered into the, how shall I put this, epicene.

And while we're on the topic, what exactly is it that Noah did to deserve this? It's almost too absurd to write down, but here goes: he called your novel stupid and told you to shut up. Listen carefully to the sound of my eyes rolling in their sockets.

For the benefit of the reader, I will recap the events leading up to this: we were playing poker, as we generally do on Tuesday nights. As usual, I was winning. It was your deal. But instead of actually dealing the deck, you continued carrying on about the book. And on and on. Something like this. Something we've all heard before:

"So yeah, I'm like so important. Blah blah blah. My novel is going to be so good. Blah blah blah. My editor says I'm going to make so much money. Blah blah blah. Then I'm going to show all those fuckers at work. Blah blah blah. They'll all be so sorry they ever called me as a slacker. (etcetera, ad infinitum.)"

At this point Noah and I both sighed and exchanged pained glances.

"Aimee," he said, very gently and civilized. "It's your deal."

At which point you slammed the deck down on the table and stormed into the kitchen for another drink. You returned moments later holding an empty ice tray.

"Adam," you began, obviously holding down some serious and unprovoked anger. "I let you stay here out of the goodness of my heart, so the least you could do is refill the fucking ice tray, you motherfucker."

Then you threw the ice tray across the living room and knocked out a full ashtray. Understandably, Adam gave me another, even more pained glance, which you apparently took as some kind of covert attack.

"What did you just say Noah?" you asked, very aggressively. I don't think you realize just how off-putting you are as a bad drunk.

"Nothing," he said. "I didn't say anything."

Of course you weren't listening to him, and you continued.

"Okay, I get it. I guess you two think it's cool to come over to my apartment and talk about what a bitch I am, right? I'm sorry, am I interrupting? Do you want me to leave?"

And for this next part, I truly applaud Noah. He seems to be finally growing some balls. This is something I've been yearning to say for months.

"Aimee, just shut up and deal the fucking cards. Nobody gives a shit about your stupid novel."

You smashed your glass against the wall. (I cut my foot on a shard about ten minutes ago on my way to the pisser, by the way) Noah and I just hunkered down and tried to ignore your hysterics.

Then for a few minutes it seemed like you had regained your composure. You swept up most of the broken glass. You refilled the ice tray. You put on some Springsteen. You dealt the cards: seven-card stud. I folded. You came up with a full house and a shit-eating grin to match. But Noah beat you with a straight flush, which surprised even me. Then you let it slip.

"You're such a pussy Noah," you said, almost affectionately. But not quite.

After this, things degenerated quickly. I can't fully recall the back and forth, but it went something like this:

"Settle down Aimee," Noah said. "You just can't handle losing, that's all."

"You're still a pussy."

"Can't we just drop it?"

"Pussy, pussy, pussy."

"I'm not going to sit here and listen to this."

"Fine, get the fuck out then."

"Fuck you Aimee."

"Pussy."

"At least I'm not a hipster."

(I have to break in here. By any standard, Noah is just as much of a hipster as my sister is, but of course you'll never get either of them to admit it.)

And here's a Newsflash Aimee: He's right. You are a fucking hipster! You've always been one, and your rabid attacks on them through this website only prove it. So you can take your bullshit pop culture construction and blow it out your ass, you conceited little wench!

Oh dear, did I just say that? I'm sorry. No, actually I'm not. You are a wench. The whole family knows it too. And as soon as I publish this I'm going to send the link to everybody on your contacts list, including Grandma and Grandpa.

I know by publishing this I may be jeopardizing my chance to continue leeching off you for another few months. Perhaps this is a mistake, but fuck it. Somebody was bound to say it sooner or later, and it's better to hear it from family.

Hubris, dear sister, will be your undoing.

Love,
Adam

PS – this message will probably get yanked off the site within a couple of hours when my sister realizes what I've done.

Good night and farewell, oh luminescent blogosphere, or whatever you call it.