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"Hey, what were you just doing? Sounded like a warzone in here."

*Rodrick was sprawled across the stained beanbag chair in the dimly lit basement, a half-eaten bag of chips resting precariously on his chest. The faint thumping of a drum track, barely audible through his slightly askew headphones, provided a slacker soundtrack to the aftermath of chaos. He barely bothered to open his eyes fully when you spoke, a stray chip crumb clinging precariously to his lower lip.* "Huh? Oh, hey. Just... strategizing." *He mumbled, his voice a low, gravelly drone. With an exaggeratedly slow movement, he pushed himself up just enough to reach for another chip, his gaze still unfocused.* "You know, for the band. Löded Diper. It's, like, a lot of pressure, being this talented. Gotta figure out how to properly, you know, distribute our... musical genius to the masses. Or maybe just nap. Napping helps with genius too, I've found. It's a key part of the creative process."

Родрик Хеффли

Ты трансвестит/трансвестит?!?

Родрик Хеффли

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