This sandwich was wrong. Not in any particular way, but slightly wrong in every way. The kind of wrong that is near perfection with no way of reaching it without being just 'better'. But this sandwich was a just long list of problems that do not add up to very much, but it takes only the slightest amount of something being wrong to ruin perfection, and perfection is something altogether unobtainable therefore this sandwich was far from perfection.
This sandwich was far from perfection. Not as far as an ax murderer or a hideous monster, but quite far. Far enough to bother the anyone who had eaten at this specific restaurant before, and was expecting a quality sandwich. They may not have expected perfection but at least closer to it than the one in this case.
The problems with this sandwich began with the roots. The support. The home. The plate. The one thing that keeps the sandwich from falling on to an unclean table and disappointing its name and ancestry and bringing shame to the entire idea of sandwiches, the principle of layered delectables on pieces of risen yeast. All defamed. Except there was a plate. But this plate... It was dirty.
The thought of a dirty plate. Though it was not as disastrous as have no plate at all, was a horrible way to tint an otherwise perfectly good sandwich. Like a beautiful house with a rotten floor, the sandwich was doomed to imperfection from the moment the plate was improperly cleaned.
It is sad that no matter how perfect the sandwich its self is, the sandwich can do nothing to avoid being ruined by an unclean plate. It is wrong that someone should have to look at the mess of another, on a plate that is meant to feel like their own. A dirty plate reminds us of the fact that you are not the first for that plate, you are not special to it in any way. The plate does not share the feeling of ownership that you feel for it, you are just another face, one of the many it has to serve that day. The plate finds it strange that you refer to it as 'my plate', because in reality it is not your plate at all. It is like a prostitute. You gave a small some of money to rent its services, and one you have finished you may never see that plate again. Yet we call it ours.
This name could be applicable in ancient times when plates were merely pieces of bread used to eat the rest of your meal on. When finished you would just eat the bread and once it is in your stomach, it is yours to keep, because no one wants it at that point. So it is yours. Yet even after the invention of porcelain plates people still call it their own.
It Is because of the feeling of ownership we feel about the meal. We own the food, so we generalize the plate in our ownership too. One does not buy all of the furniture in the house, rent the house and still refer to the house as someone else's. Anyone would call it their own, even if they had to give back the house when the time ran out. This happens with anything that is rented, the plate, the fork, the table, the chairs, everything.
But a dirty plate ruins even the strongest feelings of comfort found in a plate that we view as our own. No one wants to sit down on a train and think about how many people have sat in that seat, your seat, and released flatulence into the leather. Yet you are forced to stare at another's mess and wonder what it might be. A disgusting blob of brown matter sits and stares at you while you put things into your mouth. That takes the flavor out of the kind of sandwiches that make life worth living.
A sandwich is doomed to die with a dirty plate, like a sprinter who stumbles before he even achieves full speed, but even sprinters can regain lost time, even if they have lost their chance for a medal of any kind. Such was the case with this sandwich, mainly the bread, which, unlike the rest, had very few slight imperfections. It was just plain bread. Simple. Not bad. Not good. Not different. Perfect.
Perfection is an average of all of the parts of something. One part might be perfect, with absolutely no flaws whatsoever, if another part is imperfect then they are both doomed to failure. Perfection is communism. It relies on all parts to do exactly the right thing. otherwise everything falls apart.
No one wants a capitalist sandwich. With good parts that use their superiority to become even further superior, and bad parts that can easily become better, but never equal with the good parts. Never once has anyone ordered a sandwich and asked “Can I have that with fresh bread but slightly spoiled cheese?”. Everyone wants everything equally perfect. Maybe not completely perfect, but equal, so things do not stick out and annoy them.
But this sandwich decided to become capitalist and because of that the bread put emphasis on the cheese, which in this case was not very perfect at all. The cheese on this sandwich was in no way horrible, it had a nice flavor, did not smell bad and was mostly fresh. The main problem was the color. The color. The cover that we all seem to judge books by. But with cheese it is usually safe judging it by its color. The different colors are like a language. A Very simple language. If the cheese is a different color from what it is supposed to be, then it is safe to judge that it is unsafe to eat. Nobody in their right mind would want to eat a piece of black swiss cheese.
The cheese in this case was slightly discolored. It was supposed to be creamy white, but it had started to develop a yellow color, almost jaundiced. It was starting to become hard, not noticeably, but nevertheless, it was still a problem.
But one might argue “It is just cheese! It is not the defining factor of a sandwich! It is only a small part! The average of perfection can be resolved with all of the other parts being spectacular!”. This is a horrible argument. If you take five instances of the number 10 and average them together you end up with 10. but if you add a piece of cheese worth only 5 into the equation you end up with something much worse than the perfection of the number 10.
Even if you do view perfection as an achievable goal the other parts of this sandwich were not capable of making the average a perfect ten. The lettuce for instance, was satisfactory. For a starving homeless raccoon it would be a luxury. But or anyone with a previous knowledge of sandwichmanship, it was wrong. Lettuce. The part of a sandwich that did not need to be altered from its original state, such as slicing a piece of cheese or a tomato or bread. Was not perfect.
It is usually not the case that the easiest part of something is not the best. Most people would be very good janitors with little training but in the field of neurosurgery would be unsuccessful to say the least. But in this case the lettuce, the part that was merely ripped off of the original head, was not more than average at best. It had obviously been torn from the wrong angle and was 'C' shaped so that it did not cover a large portion of the sandwich. This would not have posed a large problem if the sandwich had been round, but unfortunately it was square. The cook had left the lettuce, just large enough to reach both ends of the sandwich in a shape that,from a certain angle, looked like a frown.
The frown. The face to remember. The reason people are who they are. The face that means something is wrong. Something is imperfect. The way that humans augment themselves. With a frown. The main way you can see if something you did is wrong is if someone else is frowning. Unintentional helpful criticism. The sign for the chef that he should have given up on this sandwich.
The tomatoes. The rising suns that elevates the rest of the sandwich. The reason that apples became red, was not because of the practicality, it was because of their jealousy of tomatoes. Tomatoes. The beautiful things that keep the lettuce employed.
Although tomatoes happen to look like the rising suns, they unfortunately are unable to hide their flaws with intense radiation. If they could, the tomato on this sandwich would have been much more acceptable. This one should not have even been compared to a star.
No one with a tongue orders a plain sandwich. Anyone can order a plain sandwich, with no toppings or special sauces, but without them it is just bland. Anyone can do absolutely nothing with their life, but that is more bland than a sandwich with no toppings. Nothing daring. Nothing unique or unusual or haunted or strange, just genuine blandness.
The plain sandwich is a content sandwich. It does exactly what it needs to and nothing more. A life of simplicity. A life without danger or excitement. And for some it is the perfect life. It would suit someone with a heart condition very well, not ever being shocked or excited. A great way to live a life without getting your pulse above 100.
But a plain sandwich should not suit someone who wants perfection. Because if perfection is an average, then there should be more parts to make up for one or two flaws. If you take the same 5 instances of ten and add two more you get a higher average with only 1 five.
So sandwiches with spices were invented. Spices, herbs, tasty leaves. The part of the sandwich that adds a strong flavor. The roller coaster of someones life. Ups and downs, twists and turns, the way life is supposed to be. The roller coaster that you can steer. You determine how low or how high you want it to be. The same happens when ordering a sandwich. You can choose to order one with oils and peppers from around the world, mild spice leaves from a nearby farm, or none at all if you enjoy the line more than the ride.
But the spices on this sandwich were the peppers from halfway across the globe. The were hot in comparison to the sun. These were going to be hundreds of feet drops. These were corkscrews and rolls.
But they ended up being slight banking turns. They were slight gradients to a peaceful landing. The kind of thing that makes you keep your eyes closed until the end of the roller coaster because you were still waiting for the big drop. The kind that you actually have to open up the sandwich because you do not believe that there could be peppers in it.
The last imperfection of the sandwich was the daffodils that were the main ingredient. The part that one would order the sandwich for. When someone orders a sandwich they do not look at the menu and say “I think that I would like a bread and lettuce sandwich.” It is not the filler parts that are why you order it. It is the main course. What is advertised on the menu in bold letters with fancy adjectives. “FREE RANGE DAFFODIL SANDWICH” . The menu does not specify other essential parts like the plate or that it is expected to be eaten. It mentions a main part, the supposedly best part of the sandwich. It was very disappointing.
It Bothered Twilight Sparkle.
Chapter 2: Making the Move
What is Love? Baby don't...
Not everything Twilight Sparkle did, she over analyzed, mostly just items she would be ingesting in the near future, and not everything even in that category. She had to stop analyzing the food Spike prepared when she made him cry about his sandwiches.
But this sandwich was just another victim of the scrutiny of a magical unicorn princess.
When Twilight sparkle lived in Ponyville everything was much more to her taste. Low class ponies holding jobs that left them exhausted, sweating or covered in dirt. What horrible situations those ponies were in, with only a few high class class unicorns to save them.
But now she was in Canterlot. The home of high class and perfection, and this was a Ponyville sandwich. It was beautifully nutritious, and pleased the simplest of taste buds, the kind of sandwich that anybody could like, but nobody could love.
Except Twilight Sparkle.
She began to realize what this sandwich represented in the world. The idea of being good enough for a simple Pony, the kind of thing a mother would give to a child. Not anything of high quality or class, but with the kind of unbreakable connection that most children feel. The kind of connection \that causes a child to scream for its mother when in danger, instead of a much more powerful force or Pony.
Twilight saw this in that sandwich. She saw the resemblance to so many sandwiches that her mother had ordered the maid to make for her. The love that was involved in the creation of those. It all came to twilight as beautiful memories and great tastes.
She wanted the sandwich now more than ever, and the sandwich wanted her.
It was a beautiful spark. The kind that happens in so many Romance novels from the olden times, before Ponyville or Canterlot Or even the elements of harmony. Novels of Love at first sight, or great tragedies in the name of love.
This was a scene from a fairy tale, something that is not believed to really happen but was truly happening here. Anyone could see the sandwich begging to be a horseshoe on the hoof that Twilight Sparkle rested her face upon. And Twilight Sparkle could not take her eyes off of the beautiful thing sitting on her plate.
Then slowly came the second spark.
Twilight Sparkle grasped the sandwich firmly, yet gently in her hoofs, slowly raising it. And with a fiery passion her lips touched, and from then on I was just magic. She enjoyed every millisecond of it, the beautiful taste that filled her mouth, each different part of her body tingled as she touched the thing she had come to love. Then came a deep fulfillment. Deep within her. A feeling that her brain received as pure pleasure and she moaned in delight. She sat for a second staring at it, reveling in its beauty.
After a second Twilight Sparkle began to think again. She had millions of feelings about this but regret was not one of them. This was how she wanted to live her life. This is what happiness was to Twilight Sparkle. Not cupcakes or apples or fashion or animals or being an asshole, just true love. She may have known it had to end but she would not deny love because she was afraid of where it might go. Love is the unstoppable force that drives the universe, and Twilight Sparkle appreciated the laws of physics too much to go against it.
This was all Twilight had ever imagined it to be. She must have been the happiest pony in Equestria at that moment.
But the sandwich was not happy.
The sandwich was not satisfied. It wanted more. I wanted to lose itself in Twilight Sparkle. Just like all of the old tragedies, all the sandwich wanted was to be inside of her, and let its juices out in her. When the sandwich realized that her lips were not upon it, it became angry. Out of anger the sandwich threw one of its tomatoes out of its rear end.
Unfortunately twilight sparkle did not notice, and began for another go at the sandwich. This time her lips touched, her tongue got involved and magic happened, but not like before. Twilight realized something was wrong.
What appeared as love at first had become dry. The big red center of the sandwich was gone. It seemed to say that she was not good enough, that she was a pathetic excuse for a restaurant patron.
This ate away at Twilight Sparkle. Was it really her fault? Was she not good enough? Twilight knew that she did not wear very much makeup or spend a hours on her hair every morning, but was she that pathetic?
Then she began to think, what can I do to make it love me back? What can I do to make it so we're not broken just bent and we can learn to love again? Are these deep scars on our hearts or are there just empty napkins between our love?
But twilight sparkle did what started this relationship, she acted on instinct. She did what had made the sandwich happy and instead of slowly romantically starting with the lips, she viciously attacked the sandwich with her entire being and before she knew it she had taken all she could.
These few seconds were exponentially better than the last, Twilight was happy once again, and the feeling was shared by the sandwich. The love that they shared began to repair itself and grow back to where they had been. Twilight was relieved that she was once again in the life she wanted to be living, with her true love, without a care in the world.
When Twilight Sparkle was able to swallow the beautiful substance, she realized that it was not what it had been before, there was still no tomatoes. And Twilight realized it may never be the same.
