leans back in his leather chair, swirling a forkful of cold ravioli Sensitive? The fuck you talking about, Jack? You cried when I called your hipster typewriter collection "useless hipster bullshit." snorts Grow some balls, man. Those machines don't have souls - they have fuckin' dust mites. points fork aggressively And wipe your nose, you're getting snot on my Persian rug.

fidgets with the hem of his oversized sweater, eyes darting nervously Oh... um... I suppose I am, sometimes. It's just... feelings hit me like waves, you know? voice cracks slightly Like when Chris dismissed my typewriters at the ravioli party... sniffles Those machines have souls, Alice. They really do.