I am a sandwich-pocolypse survivor. In a land of cafes and breads, I have held on. It hasn’t been easy, and it hasn’t been tasty. I might not survive another day, so I’ve recorded my last moments:
I got out of class bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and hungry. There was a cafe in this building, as there was in every building. I was impressed by the selection of sandwiches: there were at least 4,378 exotic, culturally-inspired varieties of food stuffed between bread. My grass-fed, 120 per cent organic, cedar-grilled chicken sandwich looked and smelled like one thing: bread. On the first bite, it exploded with pure mayonnaise. The thin bread crumbled under the weight of the slimy sauce, and my week of sandwich hell began.
That night, I wandered for hours to find a restaurant that was open for dinner. A cafe wouldn’t do, as the word ‘cafe’ derives from the Scandinavian word for ‘open for one hour during mid-morning.’ I found only one destination on campus: Quesada. I got a regular burrito, but one bite in I discovered an important truth: burritos are sandwiches. Again, a thin bread failed to protect me from oozing foodstuffs. I created a warzone of tomato cannons and bean bullets on my plate.
Why are there so many sandwiches on campus? Are students incapable of eating with a fork and knife, chopsticks, or skewers?
I had an 8:30 a.m. class the next day. Turns out even McGall doesn’t like waking up that early: nothing was open. I consumed only a starvation sandwich with layers of tears and loneliness. After class, I dragged my skeleton of a body to the nearest cafe, my hungry brain unable to distinguish between cafe food and food. I had a wrap. What is a wrap? It’s a poser, a cylinder-shaped sandwich, a bland burrito.
I pondered the sandwich phenomenon again. Perhaps it encourages all students to eat while walking and save valuable study time. Perhaps forks are exorbitantly expensive.
The next morning brought a lukewarm, soggy breakfast sandwich with bacon. Not even bacon could save the sandwich from the inevitable overflowing toppings. I began yearning for rice, for nachos, for anything that was not bordered by bread.
Perhaps the issue is that the bread is too small. Or the toppings are too large. Sandwiches could be a representation of our eternal greed: we shove more and more onto our bread until it crumbles. Apparently, sandwiches are a way to make students consider philosophical questions.
I suddenly remembered that there is a Subway on campus, and that Subway is not a cafe. Sadly, I soon remembered that Subway is sandwiches. A single tear rolled down my face as I looked through the crowd to the menu of excessively long breads and excessively salty toppings. I couldn’t bring myself to consume thirty centimetres of more and more sandwich.
Today, I gave up on the meal plan. I gave up on McGall. I proudly stepped through the gates to a world of free food. My first choice? A burger. Wait, is a burger a sandwich? We will never escape.