Oh darling little toys. So darling. I haven't felt like this since the Inquisition.

Hm... now where is my stylist? Sabine, be a dear, ring up Phillipe. Laszlo, escort a lady to dinner.

This is an utter waste of my time. Sabine, I'm docking your pay. Lenny, just... tch.

The winner of the warden election is:

Seras Victoria

Yes, darlings. Pretend I care. Congratulations, brava, don't drink the inmates.

There must be one somewhere on the toy list.

All that honesty made me thirsty.

Fine, fine. I will just have to do it myself.

[ooc: Cue the celebratory pink fountain o'cosmos. From midnight to midnight, the fountain will be filled with a damn fine big cosmo.]

They never listen.

[ooc: Should be working. Will return to doing so as soon as IT puts our publishing tool online again. Bad IT, bad. This curse just seemed to be the sort of thing to amuse Virginia.]

Oh, Katsura, darling. I'll have a word with you now.

Can't have roses with the thorns. Can't have the truth. Why do we bother with these little creatures? And to think, Paracelsus actually lobbied in their favor over something as insignificant as a few thorns.

Paulie, dear, you don't mind a rose garden in that mausoleum you call a bedroom, do you? After all, the thorns have to go somewhere and it isn't as though you need your bed.

I believe I shall take a vacation starting tomorrow. I am bored of these toys' dance. It's always the same and some of them have such dreadful rhythm.

Mm. You wanted hearts and candy. Do enjoy, darlings. After all, the romantics among you think honesty is a good thing in relationships.

Is your taste of honesty sweet?

Sabine, Lenny, someone send out a memo to City florists. Yes, dears, have them listen closely to Auntie Virginia: they are not to remove the thorns from roses they sell for the toys' little upcoming holiday. No, not at all. No, I do not care if people get pricked. Love is always filled with little pricks. Take it from me, darlings.

You all just run along and do that tidying up. Growing, rebuilding, all those dreary things.

Thomas, darling, that was a passable cosmopolitan.

Would someone care to do one better on the boy and curry a bit of favor, hm?

What. A. Dump.

For this they try to call me out of retirement? Zombies on the streets, offices askew, and not a good cosmopolitan in either of my hands.

Where is that pool boy with my drink?