I recently ordered a sandwich from subway.  The service was terrible, the employees miserable and imprecise, and the resulting sandwich was a disaster.  It was so bad it made me want to write a review on yelp.  So, being a writer and all, I spent the next hour thinking of creative ways to describe the cruelty that had been inflicted on my sub.

My meatball sub looked like a foal being born.

Mothers covered their childrens’ eyes as they walked by.

It made my shirt look like the end of The Departed and the table look like the end of Reservoir Dogs.

The police report’s marinara spatter analysis will be the pivotal piece of evidence in the trial that puts the Sandwitch Artist in jail for sandwich murder.

I didn’t end up writing that review.  I thought the late-middle-aged immigrant woman working at subway didn’t need any more trouble.

But it occurred to me: I’ve derived far more joy from my articulate outrage than I ever could have from a well assembled sandwich!  And that’s why life is what you make it.  All the small things that are wrong with your life disappear when you change your attitude, when you learn to quit moping and have fun.

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