There’s a new “thing” in town. It’s called Subway and supposedly it’s an originally American/English/Canadian/Australian/dontknowdontcare chain. I had been to one once before in Scotland, with a bunch of friends, but that proved to be such a confusing experience that I only remember a lot of talking and a tasty snack in the end. Earlier this week I had to get me something quick, so I hopped by to get me a sammich.

Now I realize, as with most American ideas, Subway is a concept I fail to get my head around. And in an equally American fashion, I can’t help but share my thoughts on capitalism’s latest pop-art feature.
Seriously, I don’t get it. The first thing I did upon walking in, was lose count when glancing at the crowd behind the bar. Four or five, I can’t quite recall, staring back at me with glazy eyes and acne smile.

I made my way to the other end of the shop, because apparently that’s where you order, stared at their list for ten seconds, and pointed. “That one.” It had bacon and cheese. Fuck all the rest.
What followed, was a 10 minute series of personal questions, varying from “Would you like veggies with that” to “How’s your colon today”. It started off with the dumbest of all:

“What kind of bread would you like with that?”


-“Bread. What kind would you like?”

-“…The kind you can eat.”

-“We have normal bread, bread with cheese in it, bread with sesame seeds, bread made from breast milk, bread in the shape of Gizeh’s pyramid, bread with tooth-whitening otter semen, bre-“

-“Normal, please.”

Or how to make even the simplest concept, like a fucking sub sandwich, a needlessly complicated one. For your information, I’m a little self-conscious about my tastes. I don’t want to have to spell them out to a World of Warcraft Guild Leader twice my age- You never know what I’ll blurt out when asked “what else I would like”. What kind of cheese, how much, salad, onions, olives, tomato, carrodqafrglsh CHEESE AND BACON please. Oh and a muffin.

So what is this? A hybrid of DIY, service with a crooked smile, and mismanagement? One more thing to blow over from overseas and lower our standards permanently. If only they didn’t make such good sandwiches.



After about a year and a half, I finally got to sit down with my ex and have an actual conversation. And what’s even more shocking, is that I took the initiative. There were understandable objections, but I really felt like this is something I had to do. It was the logical next step in the whole process. Isn’t acceptance a part of the whole grief complex? I thought it was.

The bottom line was not to become friends, that’s the last thing I need in the given situation. The idea was to get friendly instead, and yes there is a big difference. I’ve had my fill of having to do an elaborate background check every time I want to meet our mutual friends, and after all this time they’ve become quite numerous. She’s a hell of a lot more social than I am, so most of the time I miss out on parties, trips and events simply because I actively avoid her.
I invite you to sit down and have a good hard think on what that means. My friends: the people I would die for, many times over. When they celebrate christmas, their birthday or whatever, I can’t attend. After this long, it had begun to seriously bug me.

So that’s why I felt it was time. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, the idea was to gauge our emotional involvement. In other words, the more we would want to see each other, the less we should. Such a conflict between emotion and sense is called a dilemma, and there’s a good reason why those are so difficult to solve. Luckily though, I’ve had a lot of training in the past, and I can’t remember a single instance where I failed to take the right decision. It’s a subject I am very familiar with.
Perhaps that is part of the reason why I was so surprised when she shook her head in response to this explanation. Unlike me, she bases her judgment on emotion, and I was worried I’d have to take the decision again. Against my expectations, she did it for me.

And that was that. “I’ll see you, maybe. The next decennium or so,” she said as she left for home and that boyfriend of hers, and I agreed. Granted, “the next decennium” is in 18 days, but we both got the point. Not now. Not soon. Possibly not ever. And though we each still have our issues with the whole thing, we both saw that is was the best thing to do.

So there. It went exceptionally easy, in a sense. Perhaps because we are simply getting more detached, which is, against all common misconceptions, a good thing. One more step to moving on.

Also, I learned that her boyfriend is struggling with his health. Lower back problems from keeping all that water inside his head upright, along with something called “micropenis” (NSFW) and borderline retardation.
Heh. Seriously though, he’s struggling and I’m not sorry for him. He better not take it out on her though, while he goes into vegetative state.


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