Failure To Launch II

God damn it's bright.

Usually when Sebastien puts the top down I can't help but get excited. But it felt like a monkey took a small hammer and chiseled away at my head while I slept.

Alcohol does not agree with me like it use to. They call it getting older, I prefer out of practice.

Sebastien looking for a new place to live led us to Mt. Washington. Which looks like it was a nice town at one point in time, but then someone took a really big shit on all the houses. Someone probably thought it was a good idea to put a bus line through there. Downhill it goes.

We pulled in front of the house which, as every house in Mt. Washington is, looks as if some tornado picked swept it from another town, and dropped it right on top whatever helpless structure was originally built there. But he called it a "Bungalow". Which I guess is what hipsters call a house.

I got a nervous feeling approaching the house, the two overgrown Japanese maple trees gave the porch a red tint, and there were at least two dozen Jamenson bottles hanging from the porch's ceiling as ornaments. As if to warn trespassers, and strike fear into anyone who wishes to lay siege. I began to imagine the degenerate that currently resided in the residence, then promptly turned 180 degrees and began to walk back to the car, right as I was about to bump into Sebastian who had yet to realize he should be frightened I heard the door open.

I turned around to see a guy about half my size, probably a little older, and had a few characteristics that gave him sort of a leprechaun look to him. I almost laughed thinking about this guy sitting on his couch, watching Jerry Springer all day, and drinking Jameson from the bottle with an extra large turbo straw.

We stated our business, and he invited us inside so we could look around. I thought for a minute, realized leprechauns are probably vegetarians, I have no reason to worry, and made my way through the threshold, half expecting to see a pot of gold in his living room.

But instead, found more decorative bottles of Jamenson. Since it turned out he was a Hopkins graduate, I wrote off "degenerate alcoholic", and decided to go with "who cares he has enough brain cells anyways". Besides the bottles weren't laying on the floor scattered among syringes, and used condoms. They were displayed with class and pride, as if they were his trophies. And to be honest, if you can drink that much Jamenson and still be functional, you deserve some sort of recognition for such dedication.

Me- Like Jamenson?
Leprechaun- A little, why?

We bid farewell to the lad, and went on our way.

Driving through Mt. Washington is nice. You get to play the "at least I'm not that guy game". The town itself can be pretty charming, but you can't help but throw up in your mouth a little bit when you see a 46 year old virgin with a mustard stained shirt scratch his balls on his way to pick up a 40 of Bud Ice and New Ports.

However, it has it's diamonds in that ruff... Somewhere... I think...