You can hear his voice down the hallway before you ever see him.
“OHhHh, MaH GAwD We HaD SoooOOOOooOOOO MUcH FUn At ThE GaMe LaST NiGHT!1!!”
That sentence right there is how he would text it to you if you ever gave him your cell number. But you never did. He took it off the company phone list. Because apparently it’s hip to text other adults like you’re a fucking pre-teen girl. And he absolutely did text that to you at 3am this morning.
Every time he opens his mouth you can just picture how he would text that.. in a group chat… with a nasty, volume-piercing sex video of some chick getting railed by three guys. Greg thinks it’s hilarious when you open that video at your 11-year old niece’s birthday party.
He did apologize though.
“mY BaD BrO-Dawg LOLz”
You roll your eyes, clinch your teeth and make an audible growl. Sometimes it’s a sigh. Not today. It’s a fucking growl. The very sound of his voice makes you want to punch a fucking baby in the face.
You can’t help it. The very thought of him existing offends the fuck out of you.
“This asshole… breathing and shit. Fuck him.”
He rounds the corner and stands, in all his horribleness, next to the fucking copier, telling the whole fucking office how “COoL, BrO”and “AwESOMe”his fucking weekend was like any of us give a runny shit.
Too much goddamn aftershave. Too much goddamn hair gel. Not enough goddamn Slimfast.
He still rocks a soul-patch with a chin strap beard like he’s fucking Steve Harwell or some shit.
Who? You know, Steve Harwell… the lead singer from that band Smash Mouth. Why do you know useless shit like this?
Today Greg has crammed himself into a corn flower blue button down that is no doubt two sizes too small for his fat ass, but he thinks his pecs look killer in it so he wears it twice a week. No, Greg, your pecs don’t look great in it. You look like you have flabby tits.
Because you do have flabby tits.
He’s got on braided belt. God fucking help you. A braided belt.
The same smelly ass Dockers he hasn’t washed in two weeks and some JC Penney loafers top it all off. He swears he nailed the clerk at JC Penney who sold him this outfit. It’s lucky to him, that’s why he wears it so much.
Right. It’s not that you spend your evenings in an alcoholic blur like the frat-boy you never matured from, it’s that the outfit is somehow lucky.
Oh, look at that, he’s got a new joke he wants to share with you:
“BRo-SePH! CHeCK ThIS ShIT OUT! WhAT do U CaLl a BrUNEttE ThAt STANDS bETWEEn tWo BlonDES? THE FUCKING TRANSLATOR BRO!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHJAJA”
You hate this motherfucker. You don’t want him to die, because you told your Gramma Jean you would stop wishing death on people for Lent. You want him to suffer in a few of the Chinese layers of Hell for a few thousand years.
For some reason, your boss fucking loves this cock sucker.
You can’t figure out if he’s a nephew or cousin or if he’s got pictures of your boss gently caressing a giraffe’s penis or something… but for some reason, he seems to be liked by management.
Possibly because the people beneath him work hard and make him look good and not like a total fuck off.
You can’t figure it out and it pisses you off even more.
Oh, and get this shit… Mark from accounting told you that this shit-sandwich makes TWICE your salary. TWICE.
Motherfuckingpieceofgoddamnshiteatinglimpeddickasshole
TWICE.
Remember when he told you at the company barbecue that he would love to spend a summer following Nickleback around the world on a tour?
Jesus, Mary and Joseph… you forgot about that shit.
That’s fucking it.
Today you’re sending this fuck-off into orbit.
You are going to front-kick this asshole Spartan style out the goddamn window. You are going to scream while you do it, too.
Something cool. Something they’ll remember when you’re in prison.
“HAVE A NICE TRIP. SEE YOU NEXT FALL”No. Lame.
“FUCK OFF FUCK WAD”Nah. Too generic.
“DODGE THIS”Too Matrix-y. Plus, no context.
“SUCK A BAG O’ DICKS YOU FUCK-TWAT”This one may work.
He would probably high-five you for that one. Dammit.
Look, before you give this shit stain what he deserves, maybe the crisis can be adverted if you follow some steps to rid yourself of the stress.
He’s just some guy. Fuck him.
Relax.
Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Again.
Close your eyes for a second. Inhale. Exhale slowly.
Think about it clearly.
Maybe you’re projecting your stress and frustrations out on a guy you don’t really give a shit about, he just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong ti…—HE MAKES TWICE AS MUCH AS YOU DO??
THIS FUCKER IS GOING ON A FIRST CLASS FLIGHT COURTESY OF YOUR NIKE’S.
2. Count to ten
Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.
Easy killer. Ok, let’s try something else.
Let’s try counting to ten. We’ll combine it with the breathing to make it more effective.
Relax. Close your eyes and drift away for a moment. Breathe slowly and deliberately. Ready?
One. Inhale. Exhale.
Two. Inhale. Exhale.
Three. Inhale. Exhale.
Four… times this week he’s told you about his upcoming trip to Cancun.
Your cable bill is five weeks late.
Sex. You haven’t been laid in forever and Greg swears he nailed your crush Stacy at a house party a few months back.
Seven years is probably what you would get for murdering this prick.
This shit eight working.
Nine steps from your door to his face.
Ten minutes before the cops would arrive. You could get away by then right?
3. Write down your feelings, then throw it away
Grab a piece of paper and a pen.
Write down your stresses and be honest. Don’t hold back and don’t lie to yourself because this is you, getting right with yourself.
Are you tired of not getting a raise? Write it down.
Are you stressed out because you’re worried about where your career is or isn’t headed? Write it down.
Do you want to take a staple gun and staple his balls to a cork board in the break room with a sign that says “Please punch my sack” stapled to his giant forehead? Then, you’d cover him in gasoline and set it on fire and burn the whole building down.
Wait, did you just write that down? That’s pretty fucking dark.
You may have psychological issues that breathing exercises can’t cure and you probably need professional help.
Didn’t you chat with your friend Matt about that a while back? He said his guy is like $125 an hour.
That’s fucking outrageous. $125 per hour??
Fuck it.
Kick Greg out the goddamn window.
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This article originally appeared on our sister site, Full Metal Traveler.