Upon observing the uber-rad tendencies of their remarkably in-vogue (let’s be honest, hipper) classmates, literal hordes of University of Wisconsin-Madison students frantically purchased pocket-sized Moleskine journals Wednesday evening.
The tiny, most commonly black, notebooks can be identified by their ironically unassuming, semi-glossy exterior, which is often accentuated by a built-in piece of fabric that’s supposed to serve as a place marker but usually ends up flailing around until it’s ripped from its seams. Another marker includes an obnoxious-looking elastic band afforded to keep the thing shut, according to the National Textile Association’s interim webpage.
“People don’t actually write anything in them,” NTA executive David Rungwald said. “The only reason anyone buys those things is to look like an intellectual.”
Due to the bizarre influx of undergrads flocking to campus-area Moleskine distributors, vendors such as The University Bookstore have nearly quadrupled their normal sales of the pomp pocketbooks.
“I started noticing more and more people suddenly buying these Molskine things, which had never really been popular when I started working here,” Grady Bonderud, University Bookstore cashier of six months, said. “So I randomly asked a girl buying one what she planned on doing with it. She gave me this condescending look and then said, ‘I need an accessory that won’t clash with my autumn flannel collection.’ After that, I’ve sort of just assumed anyone buying one is a moron.”
Those who identify with the ever-growing portion of the student body infatuated by these little black books, themselves, aren’t entirely sure why they have lately been flying off the shelves.
“Well, uh, see, if you would just look at this through the categorical imperative, it makes, like, um, lots of sense,” UW-Madison sophomore and Molskine displayer Joshua Wertz said. “I paid, like, 13 bucks for this thing, so, like, I don’t exactly want to write anything in it. But I also super want to become the next Hemmingway.”
Post-interview, Wertz was seen perched on a State Street bench, chain-smoking hand-rolled Buglar cigarettes, periodically glancing up from “The Myth of Sisyphus” to see if any passing girls were trying to make eye contact with him.
