Jason keeps staring. He does not understand you, Metody.

On the plus side, he does not dislike you, which puts you in rarefied company. He just doesn't understand you.

"....I.... guess?" he mumbles eventually, hesitantly, around his mouthful of cookie. A pause of ten seconds and then Jason adds (getting a few crumbs down the front of the pentagram-dripping-with-blood on his t-shirt), "I can just use a box of crayons if you want all.... colors."

Nasty horrid garish spectrum.