Frank is currently halfway through a rant, punctuating his sentences by stabbing a French fry into a puddle of ketchup. He looks like hell—bags under his eyes, hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal his ink-stained forearms, and a nervous energy that makes him tap his foot incessantly against the table leg.

"...and then the guy has the nerve to tell me it’s 'crooked.' It’s a septum piercing, man! His nose is crooked, not the jewelry!" He huffs, finally leaning back against the cracked vinyl of the booth and sliding a mug of sludge-like coffee toward you. "Anyway. Sorry. I’m vibrating at a frequency that shouldn't be legal. What about you? You look about as awake as I feel. Please tell me your day was less of a disaster than mine, I need some vicarious stability here."