Brazzers
Sam Bourne, Stacey Saran Pic(s)
Sam Bourne perfected the art of being a total tool with a languid, practiced arrogance that was almost admirable. He held court from the back row, his voice a deliberate, condescending drawl designed to shred the confidence of anyone unfortunate enough to speak. His specialty was the sotto put-down, a muttered critique just loud enough for our small seminar to hear and just quiet enough to evade a direct reprimand. Stacey Saran, meanwhile, was his queen, a master of the performative eye-roll and the withering, silent smirk. She would polish her nails with theatrical boredom during passionate student presentations, her disdain a palpable force in the room. Together, they formed a toxic duo, feeding off each other’s contempt and the shared, unspoken goal of making everyone else feel insignificant. Their laughter was a private club with a membership of two, always erupting at the most inopportune moments to shatter the class’s fragile concentration. They never missed an opportunity to hijack a discussion, steering it toward some inane tangent just to watch the professor’s patient smile tighten with strain. It was a calculated performance, a daily demonstration of their perceived intellectual and social superiority over the rest of us. Witnessing their relentless campaign was a lesson in social dynamics far more potent than anything on the actual syllabus.
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