Sandwich-making is a secret lore, a tradition, an art— and though I must work with imperfect ingredients and facilities, only a poor artist blames their tools. It’s my love of the sandwich which fuels me, not some vain indulgence which takes gluttonous joy in using only the priciest parts.
’Tis in Wilbur Dining that I undertake my craft. First, the heart of the endeavor: a finely sliced and delicately seasoned ham, complimented on either side by equal proportions of turkey—hunted freshly from the black forests of Prussia themselves. Cheeses buttress this construction, fitting seamlessly into gaps and almost, but not quite, making the interior construction whole. These are no peasant cheeses either—none of that foul parmesan or beastly cheddar that one sees so often these days, but rather an aromatic Ädelost, or perhaps a pleasantly putrid Afuega’l pitu, depending on my mood. And at last, the mortar to this brick—a spray of Honey Dijon brought from my home in the heart of the Bavarian mountains.
Holding the whole thing together are, of course, two Pop-Tarts®. I think I’ll go with Lava Berry Explosion flavor today, the one with Darth Vader on the box.
Upon seeing what I hath wrought, surely one of my best creations yet considering the limitations of my present circumstances, a sigh of ecstasy escapes my lips. After three hours of unceasing labor, I am ready to eat. Yet upon witnessing my creation, surely the finest that’s graced these cursèd halls, it is not cries of jubilation that greet my ears, but shrieks of outrage and dismay. Crows caw out their foul sound, the ground rumbles. Students surround me as if possessed, eyes aflame. Sirens howl— someone’s called the police. The head chef stalks up to me, hands tight with righteous fury, and strikes my sandwich to the ground. It splits apart. It is defiled. It is ruined. I sink to my knees; this is surely the end of all things. I am lost. I am lost. I am lost.