I’ve never paid much attention to St. Patrick’s Day. At most, in middle school, I’d wear green just to make sure I didn’t get decked. Since then, I haven’t given it much thought.
That is, until I moved to Boston, which is apparently the epi-center of all things St. Patrick. I was already concerned about what would happen to the city given the combined factors of a rich and sturdy Irish heritage running through Boston’s history and an inordinately heavy concentration of colleges. Both things combined can only lead to ruffians carousing all night long, playing their rock musics far too loud. So I’ve been worried.
But my fears grew tenfold when I went to the bank today
So much green. So many green hats. So many paper shamrocks festooning the roughly five dozen Irish bahrs that litter Washington Street. I passed many people with their alcohol in hand and green clover on their cheeks. These are ominous tidings. A dark (green) cloud hovers over the city and come nightfall, I worry that this cloud will spill open and a fermented tide of drunken, raucous college students will flood these streets drowning any passersby in a sea of fermented beverages and illicit pharmaceuticals.
I will board up the windows and try and ride it out.
Heaven help me.