This is the scene from my house this lovely evening as I sit here, trying to write my term paper. There are at least 30 cop vehicles (vans, cars, motorcycles, segways, bikes) as well as a cops on foot with riot gear. Most of the neighborhood thought the President had been shot (nope), but it turns out that the stupid IMF protesters decided to come to Adams Morgan and get drunk. Their rallying cries would mean a lot more if they hadn't been sucking down PBRs just like every other Northern Virginia hipster wannabe on 18th Street on Saturday night.
But it just infuriates me. I'm trying to wax philosophical - or at least pathological - about women's perceptions of body image and how that affects nutrition programs in Sub-Saharan Africa. A bunch of noisy, sticky suburban Ron Paul fans aren't exactly the muses I'm looking for.
So I'm taking matters into my own hands by leaning out my window, shaking my fist, and yelling, "You damn hippies, some people are trying to work. Get a job!"
Evidently, my 30th birthday is coming right on schedule.