The clumsy guy who ran over Minkyung in the first couple of weeks of school is standing not even a couple of meters away from me, staring into the snack machine with determination. From what I've gathered, he's lost money to the machine and this isn't the first time. More like the third time. How unlucky is this kid?

I tap this guy's shoulder, startling him out of concentration and hold my hand out to drop a bag of salt and vinegar chips into his palm. They're my favorite flavor ever but W.W.J.D. (what would Jesus do)?

"Wait," I hear him called out to me as I'm retreating. "You don't have to do this. I can get my own."

"Exactly how much money did you lose to that thing?" I inquire as his shoulders instantly deflate at my question. "A lot, right? I have a stash of these back at my apartment so it's not a huge loss."

"But still, you don't have to give me these."

"Yet, I want to." I bicker back with him, slightly annoyed by his aggravating persistence. So, what if I didn't have to give him the bag of chips? I wanted to. Point, blank, period. Any other person would just shut up and gratefully accept yet this prick wants to argue with me over what I should and should not do. I can't even be a decent citizen if I wanted to.

Finally, he gives in, his lips twitching upwards into what I assume is a smile but resembles a smirk instead.

"Thanks, um." Oh , he's really going to ask for my name? "Um, who are you again?"

I want to slam my literature book against his cranium. Standing at six-foot even, I barely reach his shoulder blade, but I think with the right calculations, I could aim close enough. Just when I think of answering him with the most sarcastic remark known to man, Minkyung bolts around the corner with two cans of peach cream soda.

I don't even like peach cream soda and