Don't get Jamie wrong. He didn't get his gross on much anymore. He had actually grown up. He was mature. He had grown into his feet and his ears and he had stopped mixing mayo and ketchup on a plate to make his sister squeal. He was coming up on 'old' but Jamie didn't want to think about the borderline that thirty carved out between young enough to have a life and totally past-it.
But he was totally good at arguing for the sake of arguing. He was Switzerland, however much Mars hated it, for the big arguments that raged through a family house like a hurricane warning but when it came to like, arguing over the TV remote and which was the better James Bond? Sean Connery all the way and Jamie was a master. He caught the guy serving by the sleeve, and ordered:
"Coffee, black and a lot of it. An omelette and toast and if I ask you for a hamburger, don't bring it to me. Okay? Okay." Because his ass couldn't take any more hamburger without class and judging by the little hospital, he wasn't going to get that any time soon.
"Mayo is like, secret sauce. It's the thing that makes other stuff taste better. Get out of here with your 'mayo is a divisive condiment' man, mayo is like, the nice grandma at a family wake, who has candy in her pockets. It's the least divisive. Except on fries. Then I give you divisive mayo." The guy was tearing into hash-browns like there were no tomorrows - or there was a run on hash-browns.
"I mean, I'm just naturally perfect in every way. They didn't deserve me. Tell them that. Repeatedly, please."