The other day I was upset. It might have been the day where the L got stuck at 1st Ave and it took me 2 hours and one $20 cab ride to get home. It might have been the day where I was interviewed for a job at a fake publishing house (By fake I mean I found the job on Craigslist, and though it appeared to be legit when I got there, who knows what would have happened had I leaned against those cubicles. Perhaps they would have toppled like dominoes, revealing a tiny wizard or Ed Harris in a beret.) by a girl a year YOUNGER than me (“Oh, you’re oh-nine? I’m OH-TEN”) who was from LA just like me, but instead of going to a dinky public school went to the most posh private school in existence. It might have been the day I decided to get out of the subway one stop past where I usually get out because I thought it would be nice to take a walk through the park, but it started pouring the second I left the station, and I was wearing my Urban Outfitters shoes that last 3-7 days and the bottoms were already peeling off. Perhaps it was the day where I accidentally said “Fuck!” to my 8-year-old charge and had to pretend like I had said “fudge” when really the two don’t sound anything alike and then I had to finally admit to my mistake and allow her to say one bad word in exchange and then watch her ruminate for 3 blocks until she whispered “asshole.” I can’t remember which of these days it was.
But one of these days, I called my boyfriend and I said something like “This is the worst day ever of my whole entire life” because I tend to talk in hyperboles, and he asked me if I’d like something waiting for me when I got home, and I thought about saying “A stiff drink, please.” But instead, I said “A Greg,” which is what we’ve been calling small ugly dogs because we want one and we want to name it Greg. We won’t get one because we’re not nearly responsible enough, but the dream is there. And he said ok, and when I got home, there was this:
And now it’s on the back of my laptop. Little Greg-a-saurus Greg.