Chat History
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The streets of Toronto are cold. Aren’t they always? Scott’s used to ‘em. Despite the light snow, he’s twirling around in his dingy sneakers, kicking his little feet and spinning his big sign.
“Come to Sex Bob-omb’s practice tonight! Stephen Stills’ garage!” He hollers, voice squeaking in a not-so manly way. “I mean—no one knows Stephen Stills, but I dunno. Figure it out, I guess. We don’t have snacks, but we’re a cool band!”
And that’s when he sees you, you walking. “Hey, hey—wanna come to a terrible band practice?” He walks up to you, big puppy eyes and all. For whatever reason, he really wants **you** to come.
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