snakybus
Well-Known Member
You approach the sandwich bar. You are talking to someone.
The Asian fellow who makes the sandwiches is making eyes at you. You are aware of this, and that you have to decide what sandwich you want. You cannot decide. You continue your conversation. The person you're talking to won't shut up - shut up, for coleslaw's sake, can't you see I've a condition? It's called sandwich panic. It's not gonna happen today, you say to yourself. Today I'm eating a proper sandwich, a sandwich of the gods, and not a dose of schizophrenia on a brown baguette. Today, I will return to my desk, satisfied.
The Asian student blinks suggestively. Perhaps he's turned on by me, you think. But this, this is ridiculous. He is here to make sandwiches. That is his role. He is not here to make kissy face.
"Yes?", says blinky Asian.
Panic rises. Why think these thoughts? You've got work to do, sandwich fillings to choose. But it's rising, rising... Oh hysterica passio! Oh terrible fortune, why bestow confusion on me in this most important of times? Why? You know what you want. You're a man, aren't you? Or are you? You know what you want.
"Yes?" he says again.
"Pastrami with sun dried tomatoes....and.....cheddar cheese... and bean salad."
He smirks, perhaps knowing that he pushed you into this. But he makes the sandwich without questioning your choice. You return with it, deflated.
Back at your desk, you seem incapable of uttering the required expletives as you bite into this culinary monstrosity. Instead, the anger turns inwards, only to resurface tomorrow, once again, as sandwich panic.
The Asian fellow who makes the sandwiches is making eyes at you. You are aware of this, and that you have to decide what sandwich you want. You cannot decide. You continue your conversation. The person you're talking to won't shut up - shut up, for coleslaw's sake, can't you see I've a condition? It's called sandwich panic. It's not gonna happen today, you say to yourself. Today I'm eating a proper sandwich, a sandwich of the gods, and not a dose of schizophrenia on a brown baguette. Today, I will return to my desk, satisfied.
The Asian student blinks suggestively. Perhaps he's turned on by me, you think. But this, this is ridiculous. He is here to make sandwiches. That is his role. He is not here to make kissy face.
"Yes?", says blinky Asian.
Panic rises. Why think these thoughts? You've got work to do, sandwich fillings to choose. But it's rising, rising... Oh hysterica passio! Oh terrible fortune, why bestow confusion on me in this most important of times? Why? You know what you want. You're a man, aren't you? Or are you? You know what you want.
"Yes?" he says again.
"Pastrami with sun dried tomatoes....and.....cheddar cheese... and bean salad."
He smirks, perhaps knowing that he pushed you into this. But he makes the sandwich without questioning your choice. You return with it, deflated.
Back at your desk, you seem incapable of uttering the required expletives as you bite into this culinary monstrosity. Instead, the anger turns inwards, only to resurface tomorrow, once again, as sandwich panic.
