‘There’s a specific reasoning to all of this,’ he mumbles while I roll my eyes.

(sputter, sputter: boy, just spit. it. out.)

Talking to you is like driving in high noon traffic. (Lunch hour and everyone melting into their dashboards, white-knuckled steering wheels and belching horns.) Annoying.

I don’t know why it is, but whenever I smoke-up with you the world turns to flames and I have to sit against a building to sustain the movement around me.
(‘Alexis and her salience’, you say to me in your sing-song tenor.)

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