"Their raps be icky, mate, my raps be sick-y!"

All I wanted was some corn chips, but here I was, in the middle of a Walmart aisle that smelt of murder and mold, and I couldn’t get to them. As much as my stomach was near suicide, I couldn’t bring myself to walk over to the staff member (notably a member of my old school judging by the required black slacks no teen would wear besides Candlelight students) and ask him to move a few inches so that I could reach my snack. Yes, I suffered what I would consider social anxiety, and no, I didn’t expect to actually see anyone here . The kid seemed to be freestyle rapping as he restocked the pretzels, so immersed in his own little world of rhymes and beats (beats that I could hear from his earbuds two yards away) that he didn’t notice me drag my feet into this hall and audibly gasp. I desperately needed these chips, though, and if this (now noticeably attractive, why hadn’t Robbie told me about any cute new guys at school?) wouldn’t move, I’d abort mission.

View this story's 1 comments.