Arnar

The brocoli was cold. With its teeth chattering, it slowly trugged along the harsh streets of chicago. He walked along a row of houses, all seeming univinviting except for one. With easter decorations all over and every color you could imagine, House 136 on Mullin Ln looked about as inviting as great-grandmother Anne. As he hesitantley walked up the snow covered stairs, he started to feel like he was coming home. He half-heartedly knocked on the old fench style door, and to his surprise it slowly creaked open. He wandered into the apartment style house as an aroma of snickerdoodle cookies engulfed his nose. He followed the smell as if he were a dog off his leash. As the smell started to intensify rapidly, he found himself facing an 18 foot door. He kicked open the door and found his dream, he stuck his flowery head right up arnar's ass. He was warm at last.

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