Though now you've mentioned it, I could use a drink or four. This talk of the Clave sours my mood. Recommend me someplace I can experience the patois of Brooklyn without suffering the stench of hipster beard oil and vape smoke.
I suppose if things don't go my way, I could take a few minutes for a free drink or two before leaving.
Or four. The Hunter's Moon has several types on tap, plasma if you're in the mood for something stronger, and it's not a mundane hangout. Werewolves, yes, hipsters, no. I would say you're welcome to visit, but I'll be in a mood, there may not be much talking.
[ they have very different definitions of "on tap". ]
I'm well acquainted with moods. If you're in one, maybe you should come out. Make as public a show of shrugging this off as you did bringing it up.
I'd hate for you to end up like I did: your humiliating failure at courting a mortal immortalized by some stalkery second-rate writer, dogging your every step for the next couple centuries. Or months, anyway.
Don't accumulate regrets, is my advice. And if you're spurned? Come out with me, get drunk as fuck, and let me be your wingman for a hookup with someone else just as young and pretty as your soldier boy.
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I did receive an invitation to the wedding. From his sister, who thinks as highly of this whole affair as I do, and you do.
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Though now you've mentioned it, I could use a drink or four. This talk of the Clave sours my mood.
Recommend me someplace I can experience the patois of Brooklyn without suffering the stench of hipster beard oil and vape smoke.
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Or four. The Hunter's Moon has several types on tap, plasma if you're in the mood for something stronger, and it's not a mundane hangout. Werewolves, yes, hipsters, no. I would say you're welcome to visit, but I'll be in a mood, there may not be much talking.
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I'm well acquainted with moods. If you're in one, maybe you should come out. Make as public a show of shrugging this off as you did bringing it up.
I'd hate for you to end up like I did: your humiliating failure at courting a mortal immortalized by some stalkery second-rate writer, dogging your every step for the next couple centuries. Or months, anyway.
Do they have gossip columns in Idris, I wonder.
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[There's a pause in the texting while Magnus digests the full horror of this idea.]
I need to do something. You're entirely right. I need to put in an appearance at the wedding.
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Don't accumulate regrets, is my advice. And if you're spurned? Come out with me, get drunk as fuck, and let me be your wingman for a hookup with someone else just as young and pretty as your soldier boy.