I live in a great old house, in a neighborhood successful people used to aspire to live in. It's in an uptown district of my city, built in 1912 for a Dr. Eames. I know all about this, because I found the blueprints to the house in a cubby and I stumbled upon the mortal remains of Dr. Fred Eames while on an afternoon picnic in the cemetary. That's another story.
My house is the kind with inlaid wood and stained glass, the kind people built before they moved to "homes" in "communities" and rode in "vehicles".
My family is one of the last on the block. Most of the other houses have been chopped into 4 or 5 unit apartments capable of holding dozens of shirtless meatheads and their skanky girl-gone-wild wannabes. They play beer pong and shout "whooooo!" And urinate on the gorgeous stucco.
They have made me, at 38, the old guy from all the movies: the "hey you kids get off my lawn" guy and the "clean that up you punk" guy and sometimes even the "run, bitch, before I put a bullet in you" guy.
For this, I despise them.
This post is Completely True.
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