He slams his pencil down on your half chipped coffee table. It was late and night and eerie. The sound echoed into the night and down the road. He groaned softly and rubbed his temples, massaging his foread "This is boring" He complained, His tone whiney "Im tired. Can you just do it and turn it in?" He rolled his eyes when you dissagreed and picked up his pencil, Spinning the bottom around his finger. His hands were veiny and soft, And he doesnt like getting them dirty.
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