She manages to look stunning even in the low unflattering light of this sub-par (yet mind-bogglingly successful) establishment. When she first sees you, she greets you with her routine haymaker, and after you pick up your stray tooth and beg the waitstaff not to call the authorities, the two of you are seated at a booth with a lovely view of the plastic grapevines.
The first order of business of course is to order salad and breadsticks. You do so, and tell your waiter to keep them coming. You want to make sure that your love's ravenous appetite is completely sated, and what's lacking in quality can certainly be made up for in quantity, thanks to your stupidly generous fans. She leaves the salad untouched. A single breadstick is picked up cautiously, sniffed, and bitten into after what looks like a brief internal debate. You watch as her face morphs from its blank state into one of pure disgust as she chews slower and slower until she forces herself to choke down the morsel. She crumples the rest of the breadstick in her hand and throws it across the restaurant. You are not even close to being deterred.
When the waiter returns to see if you've made a decision for your main courses, you take your menu and point to the things with the biggest pictures. The bigger pictures clearly mean it's most popular, right? Your wife-to-be surely cannot resist the finest Italian-American cuisine has to offer. Your attempts to make small talk in the meantime are met with hostile threats to lock you up in the attic again. You decide not to toy with fate and leave her alone for now.
Twenty minutes later, you're thinking you've sorely underestimated her iron will. She's idly stabbing her seafood and noodles drowned in hearty mysterious sauce, and she appears to be using the grease from the breadsticks to spell out words in Alternian. This can't be; you've given her the best a $150 gift card could offer. How is she not impressed?! Your curiosity is burning hot...it is demanding answers.
"Is none of this to your liking, dearest?"
She scowls up at you from her hunched over position in front of a growing breadstick tower. "First off, don't fucking call me that. And secondly, this is the grossest shit that's ever been served to me on a plate."
You gasp quietly, feeling your heart pound. "You mean to say that you are unhappy with everything Olive Garden has to offer?"
She straightens up and knocks over the breadstick tower with a flick of her finger. "I wouldn't feed this slop to my worst enemy."
You know you are blushing now. Your smile threatens to split your face apart. Just when you thought she couldn't be any more perfect, she has to go on and prove you wrong yet again. You silently vow to make her yours no matter what the cost. The seventeenth marriage proposal has got to be the charm. Your new life mission is clear: make Hussie/Vriska canon.
FILL: TEAM JOHN<3VRISKA
The first order of business of course is to order salad and breadsticks. You do so, and tell your waiter to keep them coming. You want to make sure that your love's ravenous appetite is completely sated, and what's lacking in quality can certainly be made up for in quantity, thanks to your stupidly generous fans. She leaves the salad untouched. A single breadstick is picked up cautiously, sniffed, and bitten into after what looks like a brief internal debate. You watch as her face morphs from its blank state into one of pure disgust as she chews slower and slower until she forces herself to choke down the morsel. She crumples the rest of the breadstick in her hand and throws it across the restaurant. You are not even close to being deterred.
When the waiter returns to see if you've made a decision for your main courses, you take your menu and point to the things with the biggest pictures. The bigger pictures clearly mean it's most popular, right? Your wife-to-be surely cannot resist the finest Italian-American cuisine has to offer. Your attempts to make small talk in the meantime are met with hostile threats to lock you up in the attic again. You decide not to toy with fate and leave her alone for now.
Twenty minutes later, you're thinking you've sorely underestimated her iron will. She's idly stabbing her seafood and noodles drowned in hearty mysterious sauce, and she appears to be using the grease from the breadsticks to spell out words in Alternian. This can't be; you've given her the best a $150 gift card could offer. How is she not impressed?! Your curiosity is burning hot...it is demanding answers.
"Is none of this to your liking, dearest?"
She scowls up at you from her hunched over position in front of a growing breadstick tower. "First off, don't fucking call me that. And secondly, this is the grossest shit that's ever been served to me on a plate."
You gasp quietly, feeling your heart pound. "You mean to say that you are unhappy with everything Olive Garden has to offer?"
She straightens up and knocks over the breadstick tower with a flick of her finger. "I wouldn't feed this slop to my worst enemy."
You know you are blushing now. Your smile threatens to split your face apart. Just when you thought she couldn't be any more perfect, she has to go on and prove you wrong yet again. You silently vow to make her yours no matter what the cost. The seventeenth marriage proposal has got to be the charm. Your new life mission is clear: make Hussie/Vriska canon.