The Plump, Complacent Artist

         I read an article a while ago titled 'Hipsters on Foodstamps'.  This perked my interest because I am on food stamps and the hippest I've ever been was during the grunge era of the late 90's, during which I apathetically found myself riding the crest of the fashion wave.  'Is it possible I could be cool again?'  I asked myself when I saw the title, and proceeded to read on.
           As it turns out, there's a small population who find that their art degrees are impractical in the long run.  After graduating, these staunch bohemians find themselves jobless yet unwilling to commit to a main stream, corporate job.  The old 'starving artist' phenomenon.  So they fall back on good old Uncle Sam who provides them with a certain amount of money for food each month.  Good for them, as far as I'm concerned- what fool would turn down free food?
          What really struck me about food stamps being utilized by these artsy hipsters is that it very well could signal the end of the perennial 'starving artist'.  In it's place would be the plump, well fed and unemployed artist, or as my brother said, the 'plump complacent artist'.  Just think how food stamps could have changed not only the history of art, but the history of the world!  Van Gogh's gaunt self portrait may very well have been two tormented eyes staring out of a healthily rounded face.  Hitler might not have become so catastrophically embittered by the need to sell his unpopular painted post cards.  Perhaps Dylan Thomas would not have been driven to his fatal alcoholism if he had had access to comfort food, in turn providing the world with even more of his breath taking prose.  Interesting stuff to think about, what might have been...
        On another note, reading this article helped my own self confidence tremendously.  Ever since being strongly encouraged to go on food stamps by my thoroughly practical sister (just picture the forceful decisiveness of an elementary school nurse behind the facade of a thin, fashionable blonde) after noticing that all that I had in my fridge was a half gallon of milk, a small part of me died every time I flashed my EBT card to the cashier.  I would sheepishly scan the checkout lines for a very specific type of cashier, this being a person of a minority race, preferably over fifty, and so obviously absorbed in their own misery that they had no energy to judge me and my poverty.
       Not anymore.  As a Hipster on Foodstamps, I no longer have a problem unloading my groceries in any checkout line I please.  In fact, I feel a certain affinity for the more cutting edge cashiers.  I proudly swipe my blue benefit card, all the while staring the heavy lidded youth sporting their trademark stiff diagonal bangs and skinny jeans straight in the eyes.