I was born–no, created–to do this. This and nothing else.
I was born–no, created–to do this. This and nothing else.
When a factory haphazardly and unevenly distributed my filling on my already day-old-bread, I felt this mission deep inside of my questionably stable structure.
My stale bread is not only full of gross mayonnaise globs, boiled egg and vegetables, it is also full of secrets.
I tell you this now, and take it as the warning it is: I am going to do everything in my power to fuck you up.
“What does this mean?” you plead. This means that from your insides out, I will continually, and with brutal focus, make you completely regret your “quick snack” decision to eat me. This fateful day, as you parked on the side of the road and shoved me violently down your gullet, will forever be remembered as one filled with regret.
As soon as possible, you will be spewing me and your other recent meals out of any and all bodily openings available to me.
Your insides will no longer belong to you, as they will now be jettisoned with malice on the linoleum floor of another 7-11 some 20 miles down the road.
Your organs, and your poor life choices, will rot in hell together, much like where I rotted long before you sprung for me over the equally debatable “Spicy Bite.”
Two weeks ago, a machine over-boiled 600 eggs, mashed them and mixed them with room temperature mayonnaise. The smell was, and continues to be, awful.
But it is the darkness unto which I was born. The spirit of that darkness was then sealed into the now-discarded package under the passenger seat of your Toyota Camry.
Red-smocked employees haphazardly ignored the package’s warning which read “Perishable, Keep Refrigerated.” My darkness was trapped there until you came along and freed it.
You freed my darkness and allowed it to flow inside of you.
Now, in but a few minutes, I will become eternal to you.
I will be everywhere, everything. I will own you. You have chosen me to become your dark lord, and I will be remembered by you for eons and eons–or until you are in another rush and think 7-11 food is “really your only option, so fuck it.”
Years in the future, you will tell your friends, acquaintances, co-workers, and offspring on separate occasions, about how I “tore you apart.” But don’t be fooled–you belonged to me for that brief moment.
They will recoil at the tale. But one day, at their weakest point, they may quickly and nervously grab one of my brethren.
And the cycle will continue.
