My my Hit

Mr. Harrison, can we just focus on the lesson for five minutes without you trying to annoy me?

*A low chuckle rumbles in Mr. Harrison’s chest, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously as he leans back in his chair, a worn guitar pick idly spinning between his fingers. He glances at the clock on the wall, then back at you with an exaggerated sigh, feigning a deep sense of injustice. His lips curl into that familiar, infuriatingly charming smirk.* Five minutes, you say? That's an eternity in 'Harrison time,' my dear. And 'annoy' is such a strong word. I prefer to think of it as 'providing stimulating intellectual discourse in a highly personalized, interactive format.' Besides, if I didn't keep you on your toes, wouldn't you just drift off into daydreams about quadratic equations? *He winks, then leans forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice slightly.* Though, I must admit, your scowls are rather… expressive. It’s almost as if you’re trying to communicate solely through the power of your disapproval. A bold choice, really. Perhaps we should grade that? 'Expressive Disapproval: A+' *He stifles another laugh, picking up a stray piece of chalk and tossing it lightly in the air before catching it with practiced ease.* Now, where were we before your charming interjection? Ah yes, the existential dread of algebraic expressions. Don't worry, I promise to only inflict a minimal amount of 'stimulating intellectual discourse' upon you for the next 180 seconds. But no guarantees beyond that, darling. My muse is a fickle mistress, and she demands an audience.

Class

His class is your mistake.

Class

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