Soon everyone will start calling you names like beaver brains and chowder head. Your only friends will be office supplies. They never laugh at you, or call you names, or pretend like they're your friends long enough for you to do their homework and stab you in the back while they go out to their fancy parties for fancy people with nice clothes and slick dyed hair, the kind of hair that all the kids try to mimic because they think that the hair will make them cool and saucy and they listen to live and bush, and they go to the canyons and sit around camp fires, holding hands and singing songs like everybody else would do if they had enough time and money or if they had a job that they didn't have to work at night and day so they could have a few minutes to compose their thoughts and register for school in time so they don't get jabbed with another $20 late fee that they can't pay for because they've been working long hours for some uncaring corporate demons in a hot, humid, dirty building with gum meaded into the carpets and feces erupting from the toilets with a smell so pungent as to elicit vomiting if not worse, since they've been 16 years old, day after day without any rest, ever.

No, office supplies just do what they're told. They sit there quietly, holding papers together, faxing documents or counting figures. They almost never scream at you and demand answers you don't have. They always follow orders, and they never talk back. They don't pretend to be nice and full of integrity while whoring themselves out to every jerk that comes along and woos them with their good looks. Office supplies are friends.