Sandwich

Violently tearing into a piece of meat, at the same time attempting to avoid the juices that flow down and round the oblong surface of the roll that possess it, I eat. Wet, sticky, dirty fingers are the evidence of my assault. Satisfied to a point, but I honestly could have done without. There is a stinging in my mouth caused by the dreaded peppers that have corrupted my sandwich. Spreading their seeds of reproach, they punish those who would dare to consume them. I failed to mention to the nice Vietnamese girl that made my meal that I am weak. Brown-yellow BBQ sauce resting on the upper lip. I hesitate to go back to the food, but it has been instilled in me that food, once acquired, should be finished and not wasted. I take another bite. This time my mouth is full from cheek to cheek, roof to tongue with meat. The sweet, tender chicken is repossessing. I determine that the best course of action is to finish it. Using lemon Gatorade I flush out the cocktail of remaining flavors that resides in the areas of mouth where the tongue has trouble mastering: between the vertical slope of the molars and cheek, the back of the throat and under the tongue. All of this has lead me to draw a conclusion. A conclusion far removed from modern medicine or the cosh velvet couch in a shrink's office and one that is most likely not found in any psychology study. Biting into a sandwich is far too similar to Hitler. I should specify dictators in general. You must have some recollection of the often boredom and sleep inducing history lectures that you attended. Looking into history and seeing all her leaders or makers, one could surmise that the given person in focus was in pursuit of something. Without gathering a personal psychological evaluation just primarily viewing the chronological listing of events, a time line if you will, one could see that he was determined. He may have had a similar hesitation as I suffered. He may have be stung and perhaps grown to enjoy the painful food. He for sure acquired a taste and that taste is our dismay. Quit often his acquired taste lead to bloodshed and a reduced state of living. He and I did not suffer without it being forgone. The voice of reason was heard, but ignored. The most-likely cause, rooted in our upbringing. Our self-confidence was made firm by sticking a toe in the water and once we are all wet... By this time there is no verbal shouted command that would compel us get out. The only solution for the world is to drag us out by the ear, kicking and screaming. War what is it good for. War is the means by which those childish boys find themselves expelled from the water. Without war, I and Hitler would just keep on swimming. Remember, bloodshed and a reduced state of living rides in the wake of the swimmer. It takes a responsible adult to drag a misbehaving boy out of the water. It takes a family to raise a boy with self-control. I don't know what it takes to get me not to finish this sandwich?