“GOD FUCKING DAMN IT, I mean, when Life gives you Greg, it really gives you Greg.
How is it, you always manage to sour the conversation?
You’re lemon juice in my milk, baby.
Your words’ll curdle the cream.
And, you, Greg, you are a fucking curdler if I ever heard one. Lemon juice in my milk, baby, that’s what you are. No Hollandaise ‘neither, no Holland-days with you Greg. ‘Cause you’d fucking ruin that too. You’re eggs benedict with a hard fucking yolk.
You’re a joke.
You’re an egg fart on the Number 26, and I’m trapped, fuming with the fumes of it, ‘cause my brain is full of the smell of you and nothing else. Here I am, irate, late, and waiting, no peace in the bus seat ‘cause of fucking… Greg.
God fucking damn it, when Life gives you Greg, it really gives you Greg.”
In twenty-six slashes of an angry pen, I enact my bloodthirsty revenge. An indigo insolence five thousand and twenty-six years in the making, a cuneiform callback as old as anger and ink and implements. A brilliant crescendo of rage, all staccato and forte and I’m the conductor, and for twenty-six seconds I feel strong, and there, just there on the seat, the culmination cut in the cream:
FUCK. YOU. GREG.
Yeah… Fuck you Greg.
And for twenty-six minutes, every day for the next twenty-six days, I got to contemplate my masterpiece. I guess the bus driver only bleaches once a month.
And I guess if I’m being honest, I really only enjoyed it for one.