Her: and they were roommates
My autistic ass, picking my belly button while contracting my neck muscles on the left side, trying to balance the tension in the precise spot between regular and uncontrollably cramped, singing “One” by U2 in my head, keeping my eyes completely relaxed to focus on those little blurry floaty thingys, knowing full well that when you focus on them, they disappear, assessing whether it is time to trim my nostrils' hair, focusing on feeling the surrounding smell, wondering whether I can figure out whether it is time to change my bedsheets without getting closer to them to smell them properly (do I feel the smell? I don't feel it, but is that because bedsheets are fresh, or because I'm too far away to smell it?), thinking about whether my T-shirt is exactly centered and whether one side has more fabric than the left, thus weighing more, so I have to readjust it, also thinking about whether “text/pain” is a good enough name for my book: please continue

(I know that the answer is “oh my god they were roommates”, but I want to socialize and not appear as a smartass, all while thinking about whether it's authentic or not)