Watch out, ladies and gentlemen. Manny Roberts, in his awkward glory, is throwing all his chips on the table tonight when it comes to chit-chatting up the shwanking party scene.
“I need to get my head in the game,” said the English major hours before as he tousled his hair and sat on his chair, shirtless and hesitant, contemplating his brash decision.
“Tonight is the night that I buckle down and finally talk to people- and I mean, like, hold a conversation longer than ‘Hey. Nice to see you, I guess. Cool.’”
With that spurt of risky determination, Roberts drew out his trump card from a closet wrapped in science fiction and Fallout Boy posters: a neatly-pressed button-up shirt that would accentuate his bony shoulders and release his try-hard amount of cologne.
“I’m real serious about actually socializing tonight, and I mean real serious,” said daredevil Roberts to no one in particular, for he was talking to himself as was customary.
After finishing his final preparations and unbuttoning at least three top buttons on his shirt to add a stylish flair to his waifish frame, Roberts bid adieu to his roommates and semi-confidently exited his dorm room.
“I’m happy that he’s, you know, at least attempting human contact and getting some natural air and stuff like that,” said roommate Mark Nelson, whose lack of a shirt with buttons was glaring and distracting. “But he’ll probably screw the pooch once he gets to the actual party, especially if he sees that chick with the all the tats.”
“Even if that button-up shirt is definitely a wise move, you can only paint a timid deer to make it look like a different deer; a moose, at best,” continued disloyal other roommate Mason Limbaugh. “He’s no wolf. Oh no. Still, nice shirt”
“Poor sonofabitch,” concluded Limbaugh.
Flyin’ Roberts was last reported to have been standing alone in a corner of a crowded dance room, sipping on a glass of water and looking at another group of people close by to appear as if he was part of the conversation and that he was invested in the discussion rather than his own tumultuous thoughts. When asked why the shirt did not work, dandyman Roberts mumbled that he was “stupid for thinking that a fucking shirt could repress seventeen years of awkwardness.”
