"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.