You sit, unfazed and bleary-eyed, in a pale-lit classroom of eight students, various grades, and one bald, aging loser with a bachelor's degree in Education and a bachelor's fridge at home full of cheap beer and frozen dinners – at least, you safely assume. The boy, or girl (nobody can tell, or cares) at front packs up their two sheets of paper, like the act's not even over yet, waiting for someone to laugh, or 'ooh' or 'awe' at their amazing, life-changing story. You barely even remember what it was about. Forest boys, or something? Gay vampires? Who gives a shit. You'd rather be at the arcade, castling vanias. Rail-gunning insect hordes. Shooting fireballs at fighter girls in bikinis. The peak stuff. But silence ticks away at the clock, breaking itself in the frustrating paradox of a room too noisy to be quiet, and too quiet to be noisy. The docile agitation of a doctor's office with the strict rules of a prison, that's the school motto. Someone has to say something, or this glory hog is gonna stand up there all day in their stupid all-black emo clothes, glaring red sweater, and perfectly over-shampooed shiny hair, wearing the most punchable expression known to man. You're gonna say it. You HAVE to say it – as light fills your being, and the throbbing vein on your forehead, you move with the grace of God and deliver coolly your flaming sword's strike:
"Cool story, bro."
The class erupts in laughter, and the sound knocks Ray Radigan (stupid name) back a good few steps, deflating his ego like a sad clown's balloon. You collect your high-fives. Of all the kids to show up on a snow day, you regret that it was either of you. But this, at least, was worth it.
You reward yourself with a drink, after class. Nothing in the damn vending machines here is ever sweet enough, but it does the job. You take out a quarter from your pocket, and drop it in the slot. Sparkling orange, coming right up. KA-CHUNK! You pick up the can, pop the tab, and chug. It feels good to be the best.