The partygoers only had one thing in common with me, they piss gold. A fog had seemingly fallen upon the venue, thick with floral perfume that adorned every surface and the hushed murmurs of an entire apartment worth of relatives. Lily better be right about this, or else I might test the fact that wine is flammable. 

Roses. Fucking roses. The best part about them is the free meal I get after every fucking ringing. Stems may not be filling, but the pompous bitches who can afford such indulgent displays always order in mass. You would think that the owners of greenhouses would realise how much money they throw away with this, but no. Up in their glass coated castles.