Guys, I don't feel very funny today. So I'm going to try my hand at hardcore drama. This drama is so dramatic you'll be like, "Whoah, am I back in 8th grade drama club?" You'll be all, "Did I accidentally overdose on the medication drama-mine?" You'll be completely as in, "Am I watching the semi-successful 90's sitcom Drama and Greg?" And all your friends will be like, "Shut UP, Terrence." If your name is Terrence. If your name isn't Terrence, they'll still tell you to "Shut UP, your name," because what you're doing is really annoying.
So here it is, my very own HawthoRNe-esque foray into drama.
THE LOVELY SANDWICH
A drama by Alexis Simpson.
My name was Sandwich, like the sandwich. Just Sandwich, cause I was a sandwich. I was 14 years old when I was murdered on December 6th, 1973. In newspaper photos of missing sandwiches from the seventies, most looked like me: ham and American cheese slices on white bread. This was before sandwiches of all breads and sizes started appearing on milk cartons. It was still back when sandwiches believed things like that didn't happen to other sandwiches.
My murderer lived in our sandwich neighborhood. My mother liked his mustard spread, and my father talked to him once about cutting his crust off. My murderer believed in old-fashioned sandwich things, like rye bread and being served with tea. My father came home smiling, making jokes about how our neighbor might look nice on a silver plate surrounded by fine ladies, but he'd be the same mushy glob of predigested goo once those high-class women ate him.
Hey wait a minute, I'm just writing The Lovely Bones, with a sandwich! Awww, man! Ugh, man! damn it, I hate this book.
So here it is, my very own HawthoRNe-esque foray into drama.
THE LOVELY SANDWICH
A drama by Alexis Simpson.
My name was Sandwich, like the sandwich. Just Sandwich, cause I was a sandwich. I was 14 years old when I was murdered on December 6th, 1973. In newspaper photos of missing sandwiches from the seventies, most looked like me: ham and American cheese slices on white bread. This was before sandwiches of all breads and sizes started appearing on milk cartons. It was still back when sandwiches believed things like that didn't happen to other sandwiches.
My murderer lived in our sandwich neighborhood. My mother liked his mustard spread, and my father talked to him once about cutting his crust off. My murderer believed in old-fashioned sandwich things, like rye bread and being served with tea. My father came home smiling, making jokes about how our neighbor might look nice on a silver plate surrounded by fine ladies, but he'd be the same mushy glob of predigested goo once those high-class women ate him.
Hey wait a minute, I'm just writing The Lovely Bones, with a sandwich! Awww, man! Ugh, man! damn it, I hate this book.
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