Interior Monologue Of A Hipster’s Stocking Cap


Hey hey…sweet! He opened the closet door. Looks like we’re going outside. Can’t believe it’s winter already! PUMPED. I’m ready to work. Stand up against some fierce elements. I bet we’re going skiing! I have always felt the ski slopes is where I really shine. It’s windy, there’s snow, sometimes there’s hail. I friggin’ OWN hail. Let’s winter it up, bitches!

Alright…here we go, onto the head. Hmmm. Hair’s a little greasy, but I can work with that. I’m a professional stocking cap. Let’s open that front door, and…OH GOD. What is is that? Is that…the sun?! It’s hot out here. Like, really hot. What the christ? It’s gotta be like 80 degrees. What am I doing out here? It burns! I feel like those vampires before they turn to dust on that show he watches where all they do is have sex. I’m starting to get the feeling we’re not skiing at…HEY-this idiot’s wearing SHORTS! He’s wearing FRIGGIN’ SHORTS and ME?! That doesn’t make sense. That’s like wearing a suit of armor on your chest and Underoos on your legs! What’s happening???!!!! Where are we going? Unless it’s to a beach where they let you stick your head in a freezer, I’m pretty sure I’m gonna be pissed.

Oh no. He’s starting to sweat. It smells like a dead cat in here. UCH. You know you’re allowed to take showers, right?

Oh come on. We’re going to play tennis?! In a stocking cap? I’m a hat and even I know that doesn’t make sense. Alright fine, let’s see what you got, weirdo. I’m willing to keep an open mind about…aaaand your awful. What a surprise. Why do you keep hitting the ball as soft as you can? Is it because the thick woolen cap on your head is making you dizzy or…wait. I get it. You’re playing tennis ironically, aren’t you? You son of a bitch. Who even knew ironic sports were possible. I guess I should’ve realized that you’ll do anything for quirk, as I spent the last three weeks in a closet next to a trucker hat decorated with two giant boobs, and a pair of Freezy Freakies. I’m starting to hate you, head attached to person. I really am.

And here we are, at a bar at 2 in the afternoon. Sure, why not? Not like we’ve got anything better to do, like have a snowball fight or go ice skating or hang out in a blizzard or anything. Man I love blizzards. Well, at least now that we’re inside we can easily take me off and restore some of our mutual dignity. Oh! Here come his hands! Woohoo! AND nope! He’s just pulling me tighter. Now loosening. Now tighter. Now loosening. Is it really necessary that I look I’m about to fall off your head? Like you’re so chill you’re not even willing to commit to wearing your clothes? It’s OK, bartender, I’ll handle this one. He’ll have a PBR. Unless you have something weird and pointless like a glass of pickle juice. Also, please kill me.

Do you think they sell Febreze here? If so I’ll take two bottles and a bucket you can soak me in.

Oh look! He’s taking out his laptop. Perhaps he’s writing me an apology. To me and all the other winter hats whose lives he’s wasted. “I’m sorry I’ve let you down. It was for fashion, and sometimes drastic choices have to be made.” I could accept that. I’m flexible. I’m a poly blend after all! No. Wait. he’s writing a think piece on Girls. Scarf warned me about this. “All they talk about is Girls,” he said. “But it just a TV show,” I pleaded. “Certainly there must be some point at which he’ll relax and not treat every moment like a treatise on humanity, feminism, and boning.” “Just wait,” said Scarf. “Just wait.” He was so right. I miss you, Scarf! I’ll be home soon. Please let me be home sooooon!

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