Spooky poetry inspired by the market sandwich

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alamy stock photo

Last weekend, our writer Tyler Raso put dozens of Thrill headlines into a bot, and then forced the bot, against its and our will, to generate content for us. Every day this week, one article on the site will be one of the prompts the bot generated. These are our stories.

Peers, friends, lovers. How does one even begin to broach the subject of the market sandwich? How does one even look one in the eye and dare to love? I am at a loss, at a standstill. Where do I start? At the lettuce? The bread? The Thousand Island dressing? I must confess I’ve never felt this way about anything before. A love like this is a burden. It haunts me, consumes me, fills me with something dark and urgent, and, Reader, I am afraid.

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Three Sandwiches I Make to Set Across the Table from Me so it Doesn’t Look Like I’m Eating Alone

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the all meat

The dining hall social dynamic isn’t one I’ve had to brave since freshman year of high school. Sophomore year and on, I left campus and ate lunch at home, most often with friends but sometimes by myself. I’ve never felt fully comfortable eating alone in front of masses of my peers, and now in a brand new setting with the need to prove myself to everyone all the time, the pressure is on for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at Peirce. When I can’t plan to be at meals at the same time as my friends, or push myself to sit with someone new, these are the sandwiches I make to set across the table from me so it doesn’t look like I’m eating alone (when I am).

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