[Well, that's both the gentlest and also longest way anyone's ever told him he's wrong. By instinct he chafes against it, wanting to insist that actually, he does know it's a waste of time to hang around him, as sure as he knows his own name— but he can tell from the chipper dressing-down that she's not going to buy it, so why waste his own time on that, huh.

Still. He doesn't feel all that compelled by "neat stuff."]

You don't know the first thing about me, either. See? Telling me I'm wrong doesn't make you right.

[So there, etc. He doesn't sound all that fussed about it, not really - it's practically habit to sullenly step back from sentimentality and other people. And fun, too, he supposes.]

Well. ....I guess it doesn't matter. You already decided, didn't you?