fjordicswagger | 74 Godiva Street, AKA Tamsin and Death's Home Of More Alcohol Than Last Year, Saturday Evening

Okay, this party had been born out of actual need (for alcohol and getting laid) last year; this year, those factors weren't as urgent for Tamsin, who figured she could always drop in on Jessica or Mike if the night was a spectacular failure.

But hell, it'd been fun last time. Why the hell not?

There were black sheets hanging in front of the windows again, and pillows and sheets scattered all over the floor to make for little makeshift sitting spaces and nooks. There was an empty bottle (in case someone decided to play Spin the Bottle) sitting somewhere in the middle of the room, and in a fit of generosity Tamsin had thoughtfully supplied a bunch of bags of chips in case people wanted to eat stuff.

The glitter clinging to the sheets and the walls and whatnot: not her fault. Who'd ever heard of impromptu localized glitter storms before? At least the winds had died down well before the party actually started, but there was no way in hell she was vacuuming all that stuff up.

There. Party time.

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"Do we still have any cinnamon schnapps?" Didi asked, leaning past Cara to peruse the bottles. "And hi."

"That bottle there, the nearly full one." Cara had taken one whiff and her sneezing had somehow gotten worse.

Hello, I'm Cara, and I have manners like a normal person.

"Not enough people appreciate cinnamon," Didi said thoughtfully, and poured a generous measure into her cup to make up for it. (There was already something in it, but she was past the point of caring.) "Thanks. How's the party treating you?"

Clearly the cinnamon schnapps was too pure for this world.

"No one's acted like an idiot." Which was really all a girl could hope for.

"Is that good or bad?" Didi wondered.

"It's either less annoying or less entertaining," Cara replied. "Depends on whether their idiocy is directed at me."

74 Godiva Street, AKA Tamsin and Death's Home Of More Alcohol Than Last Year, Saturday Evening

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