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You ever notice how ordering a footlong sandwich is a commitment? I mean, it sounds great when you're hungry, and you're like, "Yeah, I can handle a footlong!" But then you get halfway through that sandwich, and it's like a culinary marathon. You start questioning your life choices. You're thinking, "Why did I commit to this footlong? Did I really need all this bread? Is my jaw up for this challenge?" And let's talk about the structural integrity of a footlong. It's like trying to keep a skyscraper standing while you eat it. Every bite is a game of Jenga with ingredients threatening to topple out the sides. By the time you're done, your sandwich looks like it survived a tornado.
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Eating a footlong in public is a skill. You've got to master the art of maintaining dignity while navigating a sandwich longer than a toddler. There's always that moment when you consider folding it in half, but you know you'll look like a sandwich origami artist gone wrong. And don't even get me started on the condiment distribution. You try to evenly spread mustard, but one end becomes a mustard waterfall while the other end is bone-dry. It's a condiment crisis! You end up with a sandwich that's a metaphor for life – messy, uneven, but oddly satisfying.
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Have you ever been to a sandwich shop where they ask, "Do you want that toasted?" and you're caught off guard? You're standing there thinking, "Toasted? I was barely prepared for the length decision!" Now I have to make another life-altering choice about the crispiness of my bread. It's like they're turning a simple lunch into a philosophical dilemma. And then they ask about the cheese. "What kind of cheese do you want?" I panic and blurt out the first cheese that comes to mind. It's like a cheese personality test. "Provolone." Now I'm stuck with provolone, questioning my cheese identity. I don't even know if I like provolone, but I'm committed.
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I went to Subway the other day, and the sandwich artist asked, "Do you want a footlong or a six-inch?" Now, that's a loaded question. It's like they're challenging your sandwich-eating prowess in public. You hesitate for a moment, and suddenly it feels like the whole line is judging your life choices based on the length of your sandwich. And what's with the six-inch option? It's like a sandwich for commitment-phobes. "I want a sandwich, but let's keep it casual, you know? I'm not ready for a footlong relationship." I always feel the need to justify my choice to the person behind the counter, like, "I have a dentist appointment later; I can't be dealing with a footlong right now!
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