† SINISTER PUBLICATIONS†

I don’t care what you all think,

I am a weiner, and I used to work at Subway,
Where dreams go to die and bread goes to cry.
Back then I was a young vato with a green apron and a soul full of hope,
Thinking I was gonna rise up to Sandwich Manager, NOPE

Instead I learned:

• people get VIOLENT over extra olives
• nobody knows what the hell “Italian Herbs & Cheese” actually means
• every customer thinks they invented the “extra toasted” request
• the toaster oven is hotter than Juárez in July and it’s obscene
• and the smell of bread never leaves your clothes (you smell like a carb for 48 hours straight)

I was in there making footlongs like a depressed magician,
Slapping ham slices with the precision of a surgeon who gave up on life.

And every shift felt like:

“Damn… is this my villain origin story or my comedy special?”

Kids would come in asking for “the sandwich with the circles,”
Old ladies would ask for “the bread that’s soft but crunchy,”
And one dude tried to pay me with munchies

And the worst part?

Every time I cut a sandwich, I felt like I was cutting my future in two.

But I survived.
I escaped. I evolved.
Subway didn’t break me. It just seasoned me.
Like oregano. But sadder and crazier than the mad hatter