BRINGIN' BACK TFU/Finally-Into-The-Loft, YEAH THAT'S RIGHT RESTARTIN' THIS SITE.

(AN: OH SCREW IT WE NEED TO START NEW. LIKE SERIOUSLY. WE FOUND THE KEY IN "TO THE LOFT", SO LET'S GET THIS HIP-HAPPENIN' PARTY STARTED.)

"Home, home, home..." Roger mumbled in a sing-song voice. He stumbled his way over old pieces of debris; including old songs lryics, posters of his old band, probably-way-to-old-to-eat scraps of food, and a piece of shrapnel that used to be Benny's car door.

Finally reaching the fridge, Roger swung the door open hastily in search of some nourishment.

(And by nourishment, Roger was thinking alchohol.)

"OKAY SO I FOUND SOME... VODKA.... AND... SOME... GIN... AND A LOT OF OTHER CRAP KAY GUYS WHAT DO YOU WANT??" the musician hauled as many bottles as possible out of the fridge and almost-but-not-really tossed them onto the counter.

The luck of the Irish willed them not to break.

Except for the Irish wine from 1976.

"OKAY SO I WORKED AS A BARTENDER... ONCE..." Roger paused and tried to remember those dark times. "I CAN MAKE YOU GUYS DARK AND STORMIES... OR A FRUIT SMASH..." he paused again, realizing Fruit Smashes had no alchohol in them, "...AND SEX ON THE BEACH."

(AN: Sofri you better follow up to this.) (no, seriously.) (Sex on the Beach is a foul tasting drink.) (like seriously)

(I'm still really bored)

(I'm replying!!! And isn't sex on the beach like fruity? I like fruity.)

Maureen gasped excitedly. "Ohhh, Roggie, can you PLEASE make me a vodka and cranberry? Oh, or a Manhattan. Or a whiskey sour! Orrr.....a TOM COLLINS! Heeheehee!" She giggled at the thought of getting (more) drunk off her best friend...who happened to be a delicious drink, in Mo's opinion.

"Wait, guys..." she slurred. "We're like really waaaaaasted....we should, like....stop. Remember those videos we watched in high school. People were all like drunk, and then they were all like...dead."

Oops, sorry guys, that last one was me. Stupid site logged me off. *grumble grumble*

Mimi tottered into the Loft, leaning heavily on the diva's shoulder. "Rosshie...." she slurred. "I...dont think we needsh....any more drinksh."

The dancer strode in the opposite direction of the bar, determined to resist the allure of Roger's mad drink mixing skittles....

"Ok finesh," the girl slurred. "I wansh a Collinsh, Rosshie. I'll give ya a kish if you put in extra lisshor...."

"OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD GUYS OH MY GOD THERE'S A RAT IN THE APARTMENT OH MY GOD." Roger spun in a circle, and then whipped a plastic cup at the offending rodent. "Okay WE'RE OKAY I got it."

Snap, crackling and popping his way through glasses made of glass, Roger pulled out three or four or maybe five or possibly even six plastic cups like the one he threw at the rat-like-dustball earlier.

"WHERE IS ALEX?" the soon-to-be-tied-down-to-only-one-woman (this didn't seem like a good thing to most 20-or-so year old musicians, except Roger). "I-I MEAN AXEL. WHERE'S AXEL?"