“You . . . you like bologna sandwiches?” “Love them,” she answers with a smile. Mother. Of. Fuck. This is the worst-case scenario out of all scenarios. This . . . this is blasphemy. This is bullshit. This can’t be the world I’m living in. No, this is a nightmare. Someone punch me. Poke me. Stick a chopstick right up my dick hole. Pull me away from this disaster I’m living because, oh my fucking God, the girl of my absolute dreams, the one that’s been persistent in my mind for a year, the girl who could do no wrong, she likes bologna. No, not like . . . loves.
