Patience. Waning. Abort! ABORT!

I admit, I do not have a lot of patience. Not for drivers going ten below the speed limit in the passing lane. Not for things that say they should work as instructed, but don’t (I’m not even sure that sentence makes sense. Verb usage? WTF? Anyway). I have ZERO TOLERANCE when I’m hungry and particularly when my food is fucked up.

Boss Man was nice enough to buy the office Panera Bread today. I had to wait until 2 to eat my sandwich, but I digress. I haven’t had Panera in a while, well because quite frankly, I can make a better, cheaper version at home, AND I know it’s going to be made fucking right. What’s in a roast beef and cheddar, you ask? Well, roast beef, cheddar and excess amounts of sandwich crap like lettuce, onions and “sauces.” Take your pick at which object in aforementioned sandwich structure would be missing in my afternoon feast.

THE FUCKING CHEDDAR CHEESE!

I don’t know about you, but roast beef is just a little bland and dry at Panera Bread to eat with just, well, bread (and not even Asiago bread anymore, double what-the-fuck?). I mean, easy enough, “What’s on the roast beef and cheddar?” “Duh, dumbass, roast beef and cheddar (and a bunch of additional sandwich shit).” Easy, peasy.

Of course, the sandwich was delivered to my desk as I (im)patiently waited for my computer (still) to be at a functioning status. And I refuse to travel further into the eastern suburban abyss which is Cedar Road to get a younger, fresher model, which irritates me further. But it was free, right? I shouldn’t complain.

Apparently too difficult for end-of-summer part-timers to understand during the lunch rush. By the way, I actually gave up Panera Bread when they tried to kill me about four years ago. See, I asked for horseradish sauce and I got tuna fish (triple WTF). But it wasn’t spread on — it was spread on, then scraped off, but I could smell what the Fish was cooking from eight cubicles away. Mel is allergic to fish. That time too, I settled back into my desk for a long winter’s sandwich (same signature sandwich too, interesting). I was so red with fire when I had to return to the restaurant, that I was spitting pitchforks. I yelled at management about food allergies and cross-contamination policies. Then her condescending ass packed up a new lunch for me, with a smug, “I made it all by myself” comment. I wanted to kick her in her neck. No refund or apology. Nothing. And I was so nervous with the whole fish thing, that I couldn’t even enjoy eating and potentially knowing “what else?!”

I guess, Friday, it’s too much to ask from you today.

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