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Feeling Like A Cheese Sandwich


Paul Grimsley

I feel like a cheese sandwich, and by that I do not mean that I am peckish, I mean that I have entered the mind-state of a cheese sandwich. I can hear you laughing, saying that a cheese sandwich has no mind-state because it has no mind. You are right in a sense: a cheese sandwich is indeed a non-thinking object, but it does have a particular essence, a cheese-sandwichness which is unique to itself. You would not argue, I take it, that a cheese sandwich is quite different from a ham sandwich? OK, well if you accept that, then why, may I ask, is it not possible for you to accept that I am essentially a cheese sandwich in a man's body? Oh, you say it's difficult to digest, how very droll of you ... do I look like I find your cheap jibes amusing? I don't? Well, that is because I am unimpressed with your cheap-shots; leave jokes to the comedians.

I am on a plate, I have been left by someone that felt hungry but made too many sandwiches and couldn't fit me in. The heat has melted the butter in me and the cheese I contain is slightly softer than it should be -- all this does not bode well for my future prospects for being eaten. My bread is soggy, it was quite thick, good wholesome brown bread, made with loving care and attention to detail: the perfect ingredient for a good sandwich.

Do you remember the time that Tyler said he felt like a cigarette and he was talking about exactly the same sensation that I am experiencing at the moment? No? You don't? Do you not listen to your friends observations on life? Do they not interest you? He said that his head was a red ember and that he could feel time burning through his body, that he was being smoked by someone, some thing that he couldn't explain, and do you remember that he actually had smoke coming out of the top of his head?
I can feel the sun laying its light over me like a blanket and my whole structure is deteriorating -- I will be inedible if this lasts for much longer. I pray to The Earl, my creator, father of all those who came before me and those who shall come after. No toasted frivolity me, no crepe monsieur, I am just a down-to-earth, common-or-garden variety of cheese sandwich. Can you sense it? No, for you’re the essence of something entirely anti-cheese-sandwichlike: that is your truth, a lie. Your truth is a lie.

You are saying that you have never felt your entire essence transmogrified into something that you thought it impossible to be? That the alchemy of an inanimate object has not worked a magic on you that leaves you feeling wholly reborn as something inhuman? Well, even before this, I knew that this whole type of thing was possible. I used to know how to fly -- only on waking up did I forget how this feat was accomplished but, nonetheless, I knew how to fly. I had no wings, I was no angel, I was no bird, I was just a man that knew how to lift himself off the ground and traverse the skies without the aid of an aircraft.

In a previous life I was a Picasso sketch. The sketch was of his first lover and was done in charcoal -- it was beautiful and I loved being it, well, I feel now that I loved being it, at that point I had no feelings on it at all. Anyway, that life was very fulfilling, if short: people admired me and thought that I was possibly the greatest thing he had ever done ... up to that point of course. He fell out with that lover one day though and, in a fit of rage she tore me up and threw me in the fire. What's hell? Dying and realising how lonely and pointless your life was. What's heaven? Being born again into ignorance and living blindly through the daily blessings of existence, not thinking about dying. I know this -- I have been to both places before.

Actually, hell needn't be death and the realisation of your mortal futility, it can be looking in the mirror and seeing the evidence of decline -- decline that you yourself invited into your life, and knowing that you can do nothing to halt the inevitable downhill slide. God, how depressing. At least when your a cheese sandwich you don't have to worry about those kind of things. As a cheese sandwich my only purpose is to be eaten and enjoyed, and if that were not the case, if the person thought I tasted disgusting, what could I do about it? Nothing. I would be powerless. Cheese sandwiches do not worry about such things anyway.

I am coming out of that area now, my mind is travelling on to a different zone of consciousness: the Homo Sapiens brain is reasserting itself, all the blood rushing into my breeze-block! dense skull. These phases don't last long but perhaps, if I'm lucky, I might be able to tune my mind into that frequency again. You will not believe me when I say that I was there, and you will not believe me when I say that it was liberating. You think of cheese sandwiches as being quite a boring and uninspiring food-stuff and maybe, in the hands of lesser mortals than me, that is true. When I wield a cheese sandwich it is a culinary delight; something that Gods would come down off Mount Olympus to try, something they would savour over any amount of ambrosia. I have bedded women on the strength of my cheese sandwiches. I have orchestrated orgies full of fromage fetishising fuck-hungry fiends. The cheese mountain would be severely depleted were I to get my hands on some means of mass-communication and could whisper sweet cheesy nothings into the ears of the world -- people would fuck on beds made out of cheddar, get married in Wensleydale wedding dresses. If I could tip the whole! world off the edge of sanity into a cheese frenzy then I and they would be ecstatically happy. God, I've made myself hungry. I feel like a cheese sandwich and, yes, I do mean that I am peckish.

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