All I wanted was a friggin' sandwich.

So, I was telling Lori the tale of my search for sustenance yesterday. This ordeal occurred, of course, during the three-hour phone conversation and jackassed traffic.

I had decided at some point to forgo Arby's and indulge in a pressed roast beef Publix sub. Mmm. Pressed beef. Well, I drove past my neighborhood to the nearest Publix, and found upon turning into the shopping complex, that it was completely deserted. The windows were dark, and there were no cars parked in front of it. I figured it probably didn't have any electricity because of the storm, so I kept driving.

I proceeded east to the next closest Publix, which had lights on and many patrons milling about. I got in line for the subs, and was three people from the front. It took ten minutes for those customers to get their orders taken care of, and I finally got to the counter. I asked for my sandwich, and the deli worker stated that they were all out of white bread, and only had wheat or wraps. Well, I was not in the mood for wraps or wheat, as I had just had a less-than-thrilling experience with, ironically enough, a wheat wrap. So, I got back into my car and headed for the next, next available Publix, which was closer to my old domicile in Oldsmar.

Knowing that the possibility of treachery being afoot was quite nigh, (What? Did that even make sense?) as I was heading into hostile territory, I entered this third and, as far as I was concerned, final, Publix, in search of my sub. I had already memorized my order: whole Publix roast beef on white bread, light mustard, honey mustard if they had it, with provolone cheese, please press the sandwich before adding the vegetables, because there's nothing more gross to me than hot lettuce, please add to the non-hot lettuce some onion, tomato, parmesan and oregano, and that's it, no combo, thank you very much.

(Yes, I realize that I am the bitch when it comes to run-on sentences!)

I reach the next available spot in line for subs, which, startlingly, is not that far from the front door. This bitch-ass line went from the sub counter, past the rest of the deli, through the bakery, further through the seasonal display, past the checkout, to the door. Swear to God, it was like the Million Man March, but in single file. Fahk.


I bet you Chris Leak wouldn't deny me my GD sandwich. See, he'd even deliver it for me, he's probably that nice!

I took these three failed attempts at obtaining my uber-sandwich as a sign from God. Obviously, after all this driving and frustration, God did not want me to have a sandwich, because if He/She did, my happy ass would be on my way home with it and a bag of cheesy poofs. Word. I gave up on the friggin' sandwich.

God, however, is merciful, and did see fit to let me have the cheesy poofs, sorbet, and root beer, as I managed to purchase those items with considerable ease.

So, what's the point of the story, you may be asking? Fuck if I know. I'm just pissed off that I didn't get my sandwich. But boy howdy, are cheesy poofs ever good when you need 'em!