You're mid-sentence in a presentation when you notice someone in the third row hasn't blinked in forty-seven seconds—just locked in, pupils dilated, breathing synchronized with your speaking pace like they're trying to absorb your thoughts through osmosis. You shift left; the stare follows. You adjust your glasses; the stare adjusts its intensity. By slide seven you realize they're not listening at all—they're just conducting an experiment to see how long it takes before you forget what a noun is.

You've perfected the art of looking interesting while doing absolutely nothing. Yesterday you stood in line at the coffee shop for four minutes—just standing, holding your phone at chest height, occasionally blinking—and somehow five people made eye contact with you like you'd announced a lottery winner. Turns out you had a giant price sticker from the grocery store stuck to your back. You wore it for three hours. The sticker was for artisanal cheese.