<strong>Name: </strong>Jack Harth<br/><strong>Time: </strong>About eight months ago<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Elena<br/><br/><strong>"Well, for better or worse, that would be me. Their's a reason why I keep few friends, you know; it's because far too few people can actually handle the truth, without getting bent out of shape."</strong>And at this point in time, the only real friends he had were all in their late twenties or early thirties, though she has no way of knowing that.<br/><br/><strong>"I haven't tried to, yet.  I've been reading up on it, though. I figured the first thing I would try is an herbal wine. If I could do that right, I'm probably going to move on to making mead."</strong>He says about the liquor.<strong>"The ahrdest part, really, is making sure that everything I use is properly sterilized. You can't use certain cleaners, because the chemicals might get into the booze and mess it up. And if you leave behind any bad bacteria, you could end up with the sort of 'bath-tub hootch' that made people go blind, back during prohibition."</strong><br/><br/><strong>"Well, maybe their isn't much good to see. Maybe that's the problem; it's literally not there. But that's not so bad. It just means you have to go out and find the good, right? Maybe I can help with that, too."</strong>He accepted the mug back, chuckling at her comment. He goes out into the kitchen, and rinses the mug out, then dries it off, and sticks it back into the cabinet.<br/><br/><strong>"It's like one of my mentor's used to say. If your problem is anything besides being dead, it can be fixed. Just need some ingenuity and elbow grease."</strong>He offered her a reassuring smile.