Sunday, November 24, 2013

That fucking sandwich

It was the thing he coveted most. Having skipped his breakfast what seemed like eons ago, he stared it down from across the room, hoping in vain for a validation that could only be satisfied by a glimpse from its non-existent eyes. This was a yearning of proportions he couldn't understand. A yearnings that was not as strong as it was...peculiar. It welled up from somewhere between his stomach and--more troublingly--his loins, as he felt the first hot drip of saliva sneak out from the corner of his mouth.

"I can't," he told himself with a ferocity that he could immediately tell was overcompensation. It was one thing to desire--but this--this urge belonged to a sequestered segment of his being he tried admirably if not entirely successfully to tuck away. It was one thing to fantasize, but another to acknowledge, much less encourage fantasies such as this. To act on his disgustingly selfish desire was to abandon all he cherished about his waning humanity.

He'd never been one to think frequently of morality, and it was only now--in the throes of a blissfully crude pseudo-sexual awakening--that the thought struck him full force: "This isn't my sandwich, it wouldn't be right." And he surrendered to the shred of decency that still resided deep within the single corner of his mind that persisted in its decorum.

No, it wasn't his sandwich; it wouldn't be right to fuck it.

Image by BenFrantzDale who apparently refuses to release his photos of sandwiches into the public domain, not that he should HAVE to or anything but I mean come on.