You are Neil Patrick Harris, and you are high as a fucking Learjet.
“George Michael, hi. It’s your cousin, Maeby. I’ve got a business proposition for you. Oh, and don’t worry. It has nothing to do with the family. Call me.”
At first, Max just gaped. Alec couldn’t have just said what she thought he said.
It’s almost as funny as the storefront in Cassville, Missouri that read ‘Beaver Liquor,’ a store Dean still maintains could have made book if they’d added carpet sales to the mix.
Sometimes, everyone else is the first to see what’s right in front of your face.
Heaven is for hooking up.
“So you’d say you’re on the side of the transgenic movement? The freaks, as people call them?
“They prefer genetically empowered.”
Perhaps he is, though if he is, it’s a mystery that Lucius has a baker’s dozen times over solved.
Everything’s changed. Nothing’s changed.
“She devoted her whole life to public service, and public life is diminished by her loss.”