Giggles. High-spirited laughter. The sound of violins, a seven piece string group floating above the tinkling sound of silver on china, silver on crystal, and the sweet ring of crystal, all its own.

“What is it with ice sculptures?”

“Shh, Lindsey, don’t mock.”

“I’m not mocking, I just never quite understood it. I mean you’ve got this monstrously huge block of ice — it’s not even being used to chill anything, and it’s melting down, slowly going to disfigure itself in this room full of people who’re–”


“I swear to God that woman just pinched my ass.”

“Well, enjoy it, darling, this is her gala. If she wants to pinch it, you put it in her fat, wrinkled, little hand for her.”

“You’re so drunk.”

“Uh-huh. But loved. Look, another camera! Smile!”


About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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