How to Express Who You Are While Keeping Messenger Bag Adornments at a Minimum

Beaver’s Pick
Lyndsey Aho

In class,
you glance over at my beverage of choice
and casually remark:
“Oh, Rockstar? They sponsor me.
So I get, like, tons. For free. It’s great with whiskey.”

(You fucking tart.)


Thus I dub thee Rockstar Boi
So fitting—
like your cocktight jeans
and tiny vintage T-shirts,
So thin
(I can see your nipples.)

Rockstar Boi—
at the bus stop:
miniature girls in oversized sunglasses
greet you with a squeal,
throw their scrawny arms around your neck
avowing that

Last weekend was, like, the MOST. FUN. EVER.

You stand with your hands in your pockets
and pause


in conversation,

Feigning that social awkwardness
made so trendy by Wes Anderson.

However, Rockstar Boi, we both know that Bloomfield Hills Jews
aren’t famous for being
shrinking violets,

And your witty banter
and 1057 facebook friends
out you for the social slut
you are.

But Rockstar Boi—

Keep on listening to The Smiths
and Radiohead,
and reading Choke and Breakfast of Champions,

Continue folding shirts at Urban Outfitters
as you were this balmy afternoon,

For I have seen your experimental videos

And they are so soft and muted,
yet electric
(like nighttime),

That I can’t hold your checked slip-on Vans
and brimmed brown chook

Against you.

Lyndsey was born and raised in Upper Michigan and is currently attending the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. E-mail: lyndseya[at]