#mitchellpuckerman

There should be a rule about Quinn Fabray and alcohol. Queen Elizabeth’s Comprehensive Book of Manners Volume I, page three-ninety-four, don’t give Quinn adult beverages; in the event that she does drink an adult beverage, place a sign on her back that reads “Stay back 25 feet.” The conference room was a ridiculous place to hold a mixer, someone was throwing up in the corner, and Mitchell Puckerman existed. It was all enough to make her furious, and she knew it was that last shot that had done it. Quinn had never been known to be a friendly drunk. Oh well, at least she wasn’t sobbing.  Her position in the corner with her arms crossed was the best place for her. Silently fuming over the pattern of the office chairs was better than biting someone’s head off over something petty that she couldn’t care less about the next morning. Self-imposed exile was her best choice, and she was content to watch the crowd from a distance, silently fuming every time her gaze fell upon Mitchell.