Irish in Boston

I wore green today, but you know, it’s not like I would have punch you in the face if you had not worn red for Chinese New Year.

When I experienced my first St. Patrick’s Day in Boston three years ago, Larissa, Eric, and I went into Southie, ducked under the barricades, and as freshmen in college with disregard for manners, strutted next to the bag pipers, random Irish children “football” leagues, and Star Wars space troopers. Then we ate Mexican food.

Sophomore year was getting drunk at the mods looking through clover-shaped green tinted glasses, and marrying a girl I had gone on a service trip with on Facebook.

This year was spent eating days old beef stew and pasta (topped with grated manchego), drinking Guinness from a glass bottle with a C02 canister and watching The Boondock Saints. As scintillating as global statistics are (not in any ironic sense, just my type of fetish), I’d like to not be vigorously studying population growth and capital investment in South America for tomorrow’s midterm. I’d rather me some Guinness on draught at that seedy pub we uni-folks love down in Cleveland Circle! Why must I grow up?!

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