The backyard of Tittle- ford Manor looks like the Garden of Eden, if the Garden of Eden went to hell. This is not a bad thing; it's just what happens when your party is in a garden stunning enough to make a green thumb hard and is lit by torch fire. I introduce myself to the host, who tells me: "Don't walk on the garden, use the bathroom down the hall, and have fun!" These are his three commandments, and everyone seems to obey them.
The man operating the keg (or at least refusing to leave its side) is squirting water at people with his plastic water gun. A woman approaches him with a red cup and asks, "Are you qualified for this?" It is unclear whether she means to shoot people with water or to pour beer from the keg. As a test, she requests that he shoot her in the mouth. He says, "I'm gonna try not to make it" and playfully aims at her chest. She leaves him with both sacraments received: Her face is wet and her cup is full. I ask him what he's pouring. He says, "This is the Immortal IPA."
Tonight, Tittleford Manor residents and friends are celebrating the end of an era, with roommates going their separate ways. It's obvious that the Tittleford will be missed; while many people are partaking in the booze and barbecue, it is not quite enough to combat the sobering effects of reality. Their melancholy remains obvious and intact.
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