The kind of guy who has recently fallen out of love with prime numbers. ‘Freakzilla,’ they’ll call you when your brain prefers sliding an abacus to posing action figures on the porch. As if you were raised by robots allergic to sunshine, immune to the laserbreath of bullies. It’s true that brainiac-savants get listless too, but you’ve only ever played well with imaginary numerals & monomials, Pythagoras & protractors. When pressure is a boy’s best friend, what’s left but measuring walls of the room you never leave? Hugging textbooks to sleep, having conversations in the dark with decimals? Always in the attic fooling with fractions sometimes you secretly fear you’ll drown, so full of obtuse angles. Children chanting outside your window chipping away those master equations you’ve built to keep yourself safe from chaos. But people are brave machines. The mouth is more than a singing calculator. Childhood is not a calendar of holograms. Exercise your right to bisect before it’s too late. Don’t you know all parallel lines eventually die of loneliness?