I have absolute power over the guy sitting next to me on this bus. I can write anything I want about him, and the norms of politeness indicate that he can’t say or do anything about it. He can never acknowledge that he was reading my words over my shoulder, because that would be a heinous breach of etiquette. Not that what I have to say about him is any less heineous.
I bet you expect a long string of insulting words and comments now. Maybe a shot at his family or something about his physical appearance. Actually, this is one of those times, dear reader, where the fact that this blog is fiction comes necessarily into question. Everything I’ve written here could have been written about a real person. The narrator could very well be the real life me.
But no, it’s all a fiction. These words pepper the imagination and that’s where they came from.
Which is precisely what we want the idiot next to me to believe…