— ★ ATTENTION.

‘okay, so i’m currently in DIRE need of a distraction.’ of what, he doesn’t mention ( it’s an essay, by the way ) as, in his personal opinion, the details are the absolute farthest thing from important right now, simply continuing on with his most recent feat of over-dramatics. ‘and right now, i’m in need of your services. please... you've gotta save me. i’m about two seconds away from downloading the entire bee movie script and reenacting it scene for scene with sock puppets for the lols. please don’t let me become that guy.’

‘hey, what would you say your greatest accomplishment is to date?’ if it sounds like this is the beginning to a serious discussion, it’s not. really. wait for it--- ‘personally, i think mine might be that in all my years of playing mario kart, i’ve never fallen off rainbow road once. not once! not too many people can say the same, you know.’ he pauses, hums almost thoughtfully ( mostly it's just for show ), fingers lightly scratching just beneath his ear. ‘i wonder if they make awards for things like that. if not, they really should.’

‘did you know... that there are precisely five hundred and eighty-six tiles on the ceiling of the detention hall?’ he begins, unprompted ( as per usual ), tossing his phone onto the table before him in the most blatant of frustration. ’do you know how i know that?’ he pauses, though not nearly long enough to allow the stranger time to properly respond. not that it matters--- surely they must care enough about his troubles to say yes. who wouldn’t? ‘BECAUSE--- my asshole friend can’t seem to be bothered to respond to my text messages! a whole hour in detention and they left me stranded! who does that to a person? a monster--- that’s who. can you believe it?’

‘so, on a scale of one to ten, one being perfectly reasonable and ten being complete overkill, how do you feel about arson as a method of eliminating a horde of ants? personally, i don’t see the problem, but my pal seems to think it’s a bit extreme. your thoughts?’ arms are then interlocking before his chest as he finally allows silence to overtake him ( even if only momentarily ), brows knitting as he somewhat patiently awaits a response.

‘it’s not what it looks like---’ although, frankly speaking, it’s a bit, well, difficult to discern what it actually does look like because, really, who could possibly ( for the life of them ) guess just what the hell it is that he’s up to--- standing there in the middle of the store, intently measuring the limbs of a mannequin, clearly not belonging to him ( he’s not an employee; he doesn’t even have a job ). his behavior is questionable at best; troubling at worst. ‘there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this, i swear.’

‘do you ever, like--- i don’t know, see someone and just get this inexplicable urge to punch them in the face?’ the inquiry comes entirely out of nowhere, unwarranted, and, honestly, had a glance not briefly flitted to the stranger next to him, one likely would have assumed that he’d been talking to himself ( a reasonable assumption, though he’d beg to disagree ). ‘oh, not you, of course---’ he suddenly continues, this time not only turning to face the individual at his side fully, but allowing his hand to lightly come to rest against their shoulder as well. ‘i just mean in general. like, i saw this guy earlier today and, my god, i wanted to deck him so bad. don’t think i’ve ever wanted to crack someone in the face more, actually. it was wild.’