(no subject)
Bouncing a balled up sock against the ceiling that hovered above him as he was sprawled out on his bed had grown old about thirty seconds after he had turned to the pointless acitivity for entertainment. But nearly a half hour into it, Braeden had yet to come up with something more interesting that didn't involve him coming out of his room and being attacked by either his senile grandfather or the rampaging terror also known as his 2-year-old sister, so he was still at it. Toss, catch, toss, catch, toss, fumble, sock-in-the-face, toss, catch.
"Fuck it," he declared finally, having just received a mouthful of cotton fabric for the eighth toss in a row. He rolled off his bed and, still laying on the floor, pulled his computer out from under his bed and flipped it open.
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Who wants company?
(Be smart about this, kids. By 'who wants company', please assume that I really mean 'who wants company whose company I might actually enjoy'. Though I'm sure some of you can't help it, don't be daft.)