The drawstrings of the lavender hoodie brushed against the ground with soft, rhythmic swooshes. Within the purple folds of fabric, a tabby cat's eyes looked boredly upon the world around her through square-rimmed glasses. Everyone was so mainstream with their fedoras and their pinstripes and their cigars. All HipsterKitty needed was her hoodie, glasses, a pack of slim cigarettes tucked into a pocket, and a healthy dose of sarcasm. The cat sighed and rolled her eyes before jumping onto a table in a nearby café.Tugging out a typewriter from somewhere, she begins to tap away at her newest screenplay, now and then casting a smug look around at the other patrons of the café. None of them were looking at her, but she knew they were curious and a bit jealous. One of them would probably ask about her writing soon. Then she would be able to divulge all of the neat little twists and turns in its plot. It was a timeless classic: girl meets boy, boy is turned off by her quirky attitude, but eventually comes to love it, rejecting his jerky friends. It was based loosely off a previous experience of hers. If they didn't ask about that, they would ask about her typewriter. It was the best typewriter on the market--a slick black Royal. When the waiter came to take her order, HipsterKitty sighed and glanced cursorily at the menu before telling him to get her a split-shot caramel macchiato with extra hot soy milk and two and a half sugars on the bottom. He grimaced and nodded, still scribbling away while he walked off. Satisfied, HipsterKitty settled back into her writing, deftly hammering out the screenplay with her soft paws.

A chunky raccoon waddles up to the hooded Kitty and hands her a venti soy dry foam skim latte.  Peering through her half moon reading glasses that she really doesn't need to wear she sees the brilliance on the paper.

"Oh my GAWD, darling.  I can't believe you are writing something so cutting edge!"  The raccoon lights an herbal cigarette she doesn't intend to actually smoke and waves it around in her paw, while reaching to sneak a sip of the just delivered caramel machiato.   "Sorry doll, had to take a bit, oh you have such good taste in everything!  Anyhow, the Smouldering Rim Jobs are playing a few sets at the cafe tonight and I was wondering if you wanted to come along as my date?"  She takes another sip of coffee and taps ash out onto the foot of the passing waiter.

Kitty's jaw dropped in disbelief. Well, maybe FatRaccoon just hadn't heard yet. She had to break the news gently.

Fats...the SRJs have totally sold out...they've got like, five diehard fans, including us, and like ten other people who want to hear them on the radio, and thirteen others who say they would stop puking at the noise after being exposed to it for 24 hours straight! They're way too mainstream now.

With a soft sigh, the hippest cat of them all took a sip from her macchiato.

But, you know, there is a new indie film out. It was made by like 5 people tops, with a shoestring budget. I know the screenwriter. It should be really good. We can go see that if you want.

Switching her tail, Fats keeps sipping her coffee and Kitty's coffee alternately, not sure which one she likes the least. With a sigh heavier than she is, she dumps another sugar in one of the cups and gulps it down.

Ugh, I GUESS we could go out, as long as we can pick up a pack of herbal cigarettes on the way? She curls her tail around her rear, then gets up to order another cup of coffee.

Is the orange chocolate earl grey chai skim soy latte any good?

Sure, I know a guy who handrolls them. He's got a whole smoke shop in his basement.

Dissappointedly sipping Raccoon's abandoned coffee, HK [Author's note: in the middle of writing this, using italics to denote action became uncool.] began to consider the request.

Well, I guess so. I prefer the strawberry-chocolate myself.

HipsterKitty pulled out her pack of thin cigarettes, flicking one into life with a match and taking a deep drag on it. Unlike Fats and her herbal cigarettes, HipsterKitty enjoyed nicotine coursing through her body from her lungs. Along with coffee, it kept her up at night while she listened to records from 20-year-old bands or worked on her screenplay.

Could you get me something, Fats? You know what I like.

Well I'll be damned. Fats ordered a triple and balanced the cups like a Chinese acrobat. They're all out of raw sugar. She sat down, tucking her tail under the wrought iron chair and drew little patterns in some spilled cream.

So uh, my house later? After the film? We could uh, you know, knit some cloches or something? Fats leans back and sighs.

OH! The ennui. I feel the need to create, or have sex. Either one would do.