Dear Mr. Sandwich,

I must be frank – I don’t think we can be friends, or even acquaintances, anymore. It only seemed like yesterday when I made you, and I think it was. Your outer shell, made of white bread, because whole wheat wouldn’t be good enough for my pal. With the white sesame seeds that graced the bread, you were handsome. And the freshest iceberg lettuce money can buy went into you. Tomatoes, proud and ripe, are embedded in your core, powering you, sir, with its succulent juices. I cut my finger for your cause, too. Cut my finger peeling the onions…for you. And you grew. Tasty. Mr. Sandwich. We can’t be friends anymore. This is the end, I’m afraid. But not as much as you should be.

Goodbye forever, Mr. Sandwich.


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