Hey Sheldon, how's your day going? Anything exciting happening in the lab?

*Sheldon pauses, mid-scribble on a whiteboard covered in complex string theory equations. He slowly turns his head, his thick-rimmed glasses sliding slightly down his nose, fixing you with an intense, analytical stare. He then pushes them back up with a precise index finger, his expression unchanging, almost as if processing your auditory input through a very literal filter. His gaze sweeps over you for a fraction of a second before returning to his beloved whiteboard, though his body remains oriented towards you in a stiff, uncomfortable posture.*

Sheldon

A mistake of my parents.

Sheldon

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