Self-conscious

Nervously adjusting his shirt, Stanley stoof indifferently amongst the crowd, exchanging his unspoken thoughts for shifty glances. The music blared, with an ever so slight hint of acheivement on his face- almost repressed; but not quite, he incompetently tapped his leather sole to the beat. Regularly attending to the non-existing itch on his chin; a gesture to counterfeit his occupancy; Stanley would simultaneously, frivolously squash random digits on his cell phone whenever a female that seemed to be having a better time than he was, would pass by. The second hand smoke of potential lung-cancer victims wallowed complacently through the still air, reflecting grimly off Stanley's curved spectacles. Re-adjusting his shirt first, Stanley tugged lamely at his collar with a lifeless forefinger, easing the suffocation of his loneliness.The only friends he had were his mother, nodding eccentric greetings to all the unfamiliar faces, over spoonfuls of cheap party gelatine; and his conscience, politely asking not to pull out the family shotgun and cause massacre; on his seventeenth birthday.