Recently I bought a chicken sandwich. It was a piece of chicken, broiled and a bun. That was it. I thought carefully and then said "Ah man". I had left the eating area to enjoy my grilled chicken feast. Did I have salt, no, did I have sauce, no, did I have any saliva in my mouth, no. I was not Pavlovianing at the thought of a nice juicy sandwich. I ate it of course, the main goal was sustenance management anyway. In fact, I have reduced most of my life to sustenance management. At first I think it was economic survival. I now live a pauper's way of life. Am I missing something? I can add it to the list of things I missed starting with the two french girls with wine and short shorts in the BMW. I insisted on selling those stupid T-shirts instead of ditching the whole enterprise and running off to who knows where with the smarmy wenches.
The chicken sandwich is a metaphor of my life sometimes. Chicken salad is the metaphor for the rest of the time.
The chicken sandwich is a metaphor of my life sometimes. Chicken salad is the metaphor for the rest of the time.
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