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Viewing Single Post From: TWO TO THE ONE TO THE ONE TO THE THREE, I LIKE GOOD PUSSY AND I LIKE GOOD TREE
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[Chuck Soileaux: Pregame Start]

The music was pretty cool.

But then again, who was Chuck to judge? He was a man of strong opinions in many fields. Strong and well-formed opinions, created by hours of meticulous scrutiny and continued open-mindedness, were his favourite thing. But with music, ultimately, he was a philistine. His ears seemed to respond with an almost automatic appreciation to even the most callously constructed compositions, even if the absence of talent and creativity was palpable. His was the sort of mind vulnerable to earwormsand catchy beats. The sort that could be seduced by some formulaic pop garbage. His music tastes were unrefined and crass. He had nothing of value to add to even the most amateurish of musical criticism discussions.

And Chuck was fine with that. Musically, he was the sort of person to enjoy pretty much anything and everything. There was something liberating about there being one ubiquitous area of life where he wasn't capable of forming well-rounded opinions. He could just be at parties, enjoy whatever esoteric or mundane tastes the host had, and not have to worry about whether liking the song was okay or not. He could just slap any playlist on, just pumping any rhythm into his ears, and he would be content. That was pretty relaxing.

Chuck still was not a dancer, though. He was a socialiser. At least until he reached a level of intoxication, then of course, all bets were off. But at that moment, he was sober still. Only on his first cup. His antics were taking on a distinctively more sober style.

Chuck had noticed Maxwell arrive. Maxwell was...aloof. Standoffish. Had the aura of someone who attended parties to judge. Chuck had no objection to judging people, that's what drives humour and gossip and Chuck loved those things. But Chuck did object to trying to find opportunities to judge people. And Maxwell seemed like the sort.

Chuck loved the Brits. Would probably study in Britain one day. And Max was stereotypically British, and Chuck was less a fan of that.

Pomposity always demanded puncturing. Chuck would call him Max, for starters, just to see what reaction that would provoke. Wait. No. Not for starters. He had a plan for something to do first.

By the time Paris began talking to Maxwell, Chuck had been behind the couch for two minutes. His limited patience was beginning to run out, and he was going to cut his losses and actually socialise. But Paris arrived at just the right time. And as if on cue, slowly, Chuck's distinctive Boo hat began to peep out from behind the couch. Just over Maxwell's shoulder.
SOTF-TV V2:
GH4: Yagmur Tekindor

THE PROGRAM:
Alexander Adam Tartaglia

SECOND CHANCES:
Alex Tartaglia V2
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