WARNING: What I’m about to describe may startle you. It may horrify you.
“How?” you ask. “What could she possibly say to surprise me after all this time?”
I’m Allison Sanchez after all, I’ve never faced a rock bottom I couldn’t tunnel past. I’ve walked the streets, trading hot, hot egg sandwiches for cash. I’ve wandered into seedy nightclubs and snorted line after line of French fry seasoning. More than once I’ve taken body shots of BBQ sauce off of the pale, chalky stomach of Ronald McDonald while Mayor McCheese watched. And sure, I just recently got out of foreign prison for trying to smuggle nuggs in a hollowed out statue.
My time in the clink was particularly rough. A fictional Claire Danes-like character was there for similar crimes. We became friends, a support system of sorts in that dark place. And then I killed her with a shiv made from a toothbrush to get my hands on some limited edition Szechuan sauce.
Sorry, Danes, there was only one packet and it was sure as hell going to be mine.
Was it horrible? Of course. Do I shriek in abject terror every time I look in a mirror because Claire Danes’ ghost stares back at me, pointing a single, accusatory finger as the words, “YOU’LL PAY” appear above my head, written in blood? Well, yes, naturally that’s going to happen. In fact, I have to keep a whole paper towel roll in there and some off brand Windex because I’m constantly having to clean blood off the mirror. It’s pretty inconvenient. I even had to buy a step stool because the blood-drenched words are too high to reach sometimes. And it’s a small bathroom. Where am I supposed to keep a stool, you know? I end up keeping it in the hallway and I have to constantly open the door and let the steam out to get my bloody message stool, and then I get cold. It’s really become a whole thing.
But I could handle all of that. Until..my latest ranking. Because this time? Things. Went. Too. Far. And what happened to me is symptomatic of the frightful toll in which our nation’s youth are being destroyed by a true menace. And it is necessary to describe the following events in graphic, sickening, saucy, cheesy, mouthwatering detail.
Because Meatball subs — a violent and dangerous meat product and an unspeakable scourge upon common decency — are public enemy number one. They ruined my life, and they could ruin yours. You think tide pods are bad? You think youth sex is bad? You think all the kids with their texting and snap chatting and organizing of an articulate movement for reasonable gun control measures is bad? Well, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Because like young teens all over America — of which I am definitely still one (just ask anyone, except my parents or the social security office or whoever issued my driver’s license or my high school science teacher or anyone who has ever met me, and they’ll tell you I’m 16) — I’ve started on the sauce.
Tomato sauce over meatballs on bread, that is. And that sandwich has led me to uncontrollable laughter, dangerous hallucinations, physical violence, and finally, INCURABLE INSANITY. This is my story. Along the way I’ll let you know which fast food meatball subs are the best, but God, I hope you don’t eat any of them. You have a lot to live for. Like I did…once.