"We tried to be better, but we aren't. I don't think anyone could last more than a week here if they weren't willing to do bad things." - Alba Reyes

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Cicada Days
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👀 (credit to Kotorikun)
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"Hiii!" Irene also heartily cheered along with the audience, though Noah's age obviously wasn't much of a revelation. Though to be fair, the eternal sunshine of Irene's spotty mind could let some pretty drastic things slip.

But man, Noah had some points. Irene wasn't much of a comedy buff, too much visual stimulus degraded the touch-and-go wiring of her brain. She preferred watching things where it wasn't one person in plain getup pacing around a stool with a bottle of water on it. So she wasn't too aware of the MO of stand-up being 'culturally relevant' humor. She was still firmly entrenched in the neolithic era of children's slapstick, at least to some degree. Noah's pithy observations speaking to her was out of left field, the speaking point of what had hitherto been a fairly routine chance encounter. In other words, aw shit, her mind was about to be blown.

That reminded her though, gotta leave that tip. Under? Over? Irene could have calculated the proper amount off hand with ease, but she didn't remember the actual percentage. Just throw down a ten spot. That would probably do it. She shoved the fresh and laundered bill under her now-eviscerated potato basket, tucking it in like the precious baby it was to the poor underpaid staff.

"... but I've got fresh tire marks on my back telling me I should have lent my classmate a spare mechanical pencil during yesterday's math test."

Oh shit poor Noah- no wait Irene you dork that's just hyperbole. He'd probably only been run over by a rolling backpack, as opposed to a full-blown automotive. What was Mad Max? More references lost to the sand-blasted annals of Irene's culturally-disrespectful mind. It sounded like some kinda apocalyptic work. Like 1984, maybe. Wait, had she even read that? Sheesh, English class had hardly been the high-point of her previous academic years. She'd probably at least read Shakespeare at some point. Maybe even Tolstoy.

Mental disarray aside, Irene giggled lightly, light tones blending into chorale-disarray with the other timbres of the audience voicing their approval for Mr. Whitley.

"... Before, you could just go to the DMV to see people who were miserable 24/7, but now you don't even have to leave your house." Another laugh. Irene got the internet part though, that one earned a snicker of a whoop from her. Internet these days. Maybe someday she'd actually know why everyone thought the DMV was so funny.
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