[ mickey, instead, flops onto the couch and goes about digging in the baggy, pulling out a nugget of herb, before noticing d33 is still being awkward. ]

Jesus, dude, sit down, stop trying to have a heart attack in my living room.

[ couch, you, sit. in the mean time, mickey's reaching for a little circular tin, putting the weed inside before turning the lid to mince it up. ] Gotta to this first. Grind the shit up, so it's in bits like this.