You like to go to concerts, but you call them “shows.” In fact, you try to go to shows as often as possible. You frequently hear “no” when ask your friends if they have heard of your new favorite band. If you’re a girl, then you sometimes wear leggings with patterns on them—tribal patterns, to be more precise. You like doing yoga in Brooklyn and you adore Alexa Chung’s style, but you’ll never admit it.
Wu Tang Clan.
You enjoy smoking marijuana. You have a great collection of concert tees and hip hop records. Your closet would fit in nicely on The Fresh Prince. You make money in aberrant, kind of lazy ways, but you still make a lot of it. You’re an awful dancer and have a soft spot for Taco Bell.
You’re an old man. Even if you’re a young guy, you’re still an old man. You play guitar, except you’re not in a band—you just jam out with friends. Soon, this pastime will taper off you’ll be left with only your dusty guitars and cloudy memories that you’ll share with your son. If you own a car, it’s probably a Lexus. You’re skinny-fat, but it works for you.
You are perpetually working on your novella. You’re constantly broke and like to talk about being broke, but you still always have an extra $200 lying around for new clothes. You got your first tattoo “on a whim, behind your parents’ back” when you were 16. You’re cripplingly jealous of girls who you deem to be prettier than you.
You are my wife. You like to traipse around your apartment in your silk bathrobe. Indeed, you’d do this for the rest of your life if you didn’t have obligations as a living and breathing human. At some point in your life, you made up a dance to a Destiny’s Child song. At the moment, you’re trying to cheer yourself up.
You are sad; it could be circumstantial, like a break-up, or just a general, pervasive despondence. You’re a romantic and have a hard time being alone. You still buy tabloids. You’re either a chick or a gay man.
You can listen to them in perpetuity and you would never get tired of themm. You like to post old-school photos of Leonardo DiCaprio and Macaulay Culkin. You’ve seen the movie “Party Monster” and the TV show “Twin Peaks” like a hundred times and you make sure that everyone you meet knows this. You’re on a juice cleanse every three weeks because, if not, you’d be an alcoholic. You’re kind of zen, or at least you like to use that hands-in-prayer emoji a lot.
Lana Del Rey.
You are a fan of the Earlybird filter on Instagram. You know how to use Photoshop and you’re not afraid to use it. You enjoy irony. You like to think of yourself as a sad, despairing soul when you’re actually really privieleged and relatively happy. You’re active on Twitter.
An obscure acoustic artist like Link Wray.
You were the first out of your group of friends to wear a Canadian Tuxedo. You’re kind of weird, you know it, and you like to emphasize this side of you. You’re very handsome, but you have some fatal flaw like an inability to kiss well.
You are tragically self-lacerating, yet you continue to do this just to make others laugh. You probably live in Bushwick or your city’s equivelant. You listen to conscious rap, but you’ll never admit that you enjoy it. You’re working on a zine of all your cartoons.
College was so long ago that you can’t even remember the last time you knew a student there. You peaked in 11th grade. Similar to Emmy Rossum, you’re trying really hard to make Counting Crows happen again. You still dress the exact same as you did in high school. You brunch like a bitch.
Um, I guess that’s cool? That, or you’re still stuck in the naughts when boys would tell you anything because you were on track and your ass was tight. You think it’s endearing and “vintage” to have an OC poster hanging in your room, even though it’s really not.
Oh, cool, you know about “good” music. We’re all happy for you. I bet you’re a wiz at the guitar clamp too. I hear there’s a speakeasy in the city where Vietnam Vets who would love a quick game of Bridge like to go. You should probably hit that up.
You’re the type of person who plays a song for your friends and is all, “You guys. WAIT until you hear this throwback. You’ll DIE,” even though the song is the most trite, overplayed “throwback” known to man. There’s very little hope left for you; you should probably go die.