This painting just delivers. Thank you Gina Minichino 'cause you got a sister realizing that she's not so far removed from that egg salad sandwich squished inside of a plastic container just waiting for some lovely person who's in a hurry to drop $4.75 on me and deliver me from a refrigerated vending machine. I'd imagine that they'd have their way with me in the confines of their cubicle, too embarrassed to admit that they've been forced to go there. I can count, on two hands, actually, the number of times I've waltzed down to the nearest 7-11 and had my way with one of these bad boys. I'm usually PMS-ing and it's usually really late at night, and I have to brace myself for the look of disgust the check-out guy has as he bags the sandwich along with the rest of my "meal": a diet coke, a large ass bag of cheetos, and two king sized snicker's bars. Yep. Weakness.
The moral of the story is rather anti-climatic, ladies and gentleman. Some days I am that fucking sandwich; other days, I want that fucking sandwich. What lies in between is a mixture of irony and confusion and peace.