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While sucking on a lemonade, reading over a work in progress at The White Squirrel, I'm quietly judging the hipster who's stumbled in off of Queen St. and is now approaching the counter. Lately, I'm conscious of how quickly I render judgments, so I'm trying to be better, more sensitive, more open minded.

Occasionally, this is impossible.

HIPSTER: Hey dude.

MAN BEHIND COUNTER/DUDE: Hey. How's it going?

HIPSTER: Good, man. Good. Hey, can you change a fifty? I'll buy a piece of the Mandelbread or something.

MAN BEHIND COUNTER/DUDE: That's okay. I can change the fifty -- you don't have to buy anything.

HIPSTER: No, dude. I want the Mandelbread. I love that shit.     I'll take two. No, forget it. One.    One.

MAN BEHIND COUNTER/DUDE: Were you working today?

HIPSTER: No, dude. I went up north for the day.

MAN BEHIND COUNTER/DUDE: Wow. That was fast.

HIPSTER: Yeah. I have a brother who lives up at Yonge and Eglinton.


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This makes perfect sense. It's why I like going down South for the winters. Down to Adelaide.

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