Letter 7

Dear [adult swim],

I'm starving. But the problem is it is only 10 am. Ugh, I'm so hungry. I keep thinking about my cheese sandwich. Sitting in the fridge. Two soft pieces of white bread with mustard on both slices. A dash of Tabasco. And cheese; two pieces.

BAM!

Emeril, eat your heart out! But you can compete with the cheese sandwich. Don't even try. And if you do, you know what else I got?

ANOTHER CHEESE SANDWICH BAM!

I am the King of cheese sandwiches. And I will share my yummy sandwiches if you desire. Do you have desire?

They are sitting in the fridge in a brown paper bag. And in the paper bag they are in a ziplock bag (which I reuse because I want to protect the environment). They are nestled together in the ziplock loving each other, and loving me. Because I AM the cheese sandwiches, and the cheese sandwiches will be me. But if I share the cheese sandwiches with you then I am not those cheese sandwiches. You will be the sandwich you eat, and I will be the sandwich I eat. But we won't be loving each other in the ziplock. We will be platonically laying next to each other in a non-experimental way. And I will not rub your boob if you have one. Or even two. And I will not rub your anything else if you have one of those.

I tell you what... next time I make cheese sandwiches I will put the sandwiches in separate bags, and if you choose to eat one then that one will be all you. And if you don't, then it will be me. And the other one will be me too, of course.

And I will tear into those sandwiches like a rabid caterpillar. And I will chew their cheesy, bready bones to goo, and the sandwiches will love every minutes of it, and hate it at the same time. Because sandwiches are conflicted by their fate. But they will know, in their heart of hearts, that it is for the best, and that they will become part of me and be mighty.

Michael
Feb-I mean March-ruary 1, 2007