I'm pretty flip, and I'm losing grip...
Evenings in Chicago are often a busy time, as people rush home and others rush out.
Trinity McFasater has found a new place to hang. She's stretched out on one of the couches at the Luna, her feet up in the air, giggling as she grasps her drink and begins to sing--loudly. "JUST A SMALL TOWN GIRL, LIVIN' IN A LONELY WOOOOOOOOORLD!"
Hopefully others in the bar enjoy Journey.
Michael Vaughn, meanwhile, is out and about, hands shoved into pockets and head lowered against the rain. He's wet and cold, but not quite ready to head home. The people of Chicago should feel free to tell him how wet he looks. And/or make any jokes of a sexual nature on that topic.
Gladys is in the basement of the Conrad, baking up a storm. She's possibly humming to herself. And occasionally throwing handfuls of flour up in the air.
Yes. She's baking up a literal storm. Floor cookies taste just as good as actual cookies, except where they don't, because it's hard to bake a floor cookie.
Trinity McFasater has found a new place to hang. She's stretched out on one of the couches at the Luna, her feet up in the air, giggling as she grasps her drink and begins to sing--loudly. "JUST A SMALL TOWN GIRL, LIVIN' IN A LONELY WOOOOOOOOORLD!"
Hopefully others in the bar enjoy Journey.
Michael Vaughn, meanwhile, is out and about, hands shoved into pockets and head lowered against the rain. He's wet and cold, but not quite ready to head home. The people of Chicago should feel free to tell him how wet he looks. And/or make any jokes of a sexual nature on that topic.
Gladys is in the basement of the Conrad, baking up a storm. She's possibly humming to herself. And occasionally throwing handfuls of flour up in the air.
Yes. She's baking up a literal storm. Floor cookies taste just as good as actual cookies, except where they don't, because it's hard to bake a floor cookie.