You have a lot going for you, especially compared to a sandwich. You’re capable of relatively challenging conversation that doesn’t bore me too quickly. You offer to pay for things, and you’re able to do so because you have an income, pants with a pocket with a wallet with money in it, and opposable thumbs. You have a physical body I would enjoy poking, flicking, jiggling, and/or blowing raspberries on. You are extremely unlikely to be eaten by my dog if I leave you sitting on my coffee table unattended.
That being said, and I’m sorry to say it, I’d really rather eat this sandwich than be in a relationship with you. It’s not you. Well, I mean, it’s a little bit you, obviously. Mathematically, it makes sense. The relative ease with which I can engage with this sandwich minus the lack of a stable, rewarding relationship with a member of the opposite sex has a net stress level much lower than, alternatively, the colossal mindfuckery of dating minus the ennui that not eating a sandwich creates. And I’m nothing if not logical.
So let me spell this out for you, because you deserve an explanation.
See this sandwich? I ordered this sandwich about twenty minutes ago, and some dude in a bike helmet showed up and handed it to me. All I had to do was recite a series of numbers to him on the phone, sign a piece of paper in exchange for the sandwich, and make sure I didn’t shut his hand in the door as I closed it. Relatively simple process. It is exactly what I wanted. I ordered the roast beef sandwich, which doesn’t come with provolone on the menu so I asked them to add some. They said, “You bet.” No questions asked. They didn’t ask me to explain my feelings toward provolone. They didn’t judge me for having already consumed half a block of Colby Jack not thirty minutes prior. They just slapped on some provolone, and that was that.
This sandwich serves two purposes. It is supposed to make me not hungry, and taste good in the process. It fulfils both adequately, making it a fair trade for the money and effort I put into it. My hunger is satiated, and it was mighty tasty. You also serve two purposes: to make me happy, and to prevent loneliness. So the problem here is subjectivity versus objectivity. I can objectively say to you that this sandwich will make me not hungry. I can also objectively say it tastes good because, though taste is by definition subjective, it is rendered objective by the fact that mine is the only opinion that matters. But what about you? What guarantee do I have that you’re going to fulfill your purposes? What makes me happy, anyway? I sure as hell don’t know, how could you? And if at some point you are not fulfilling purpose #1, how can you fulfill purpose #2?
I will never have to find the most tactful and unpresumptuous way of asking this sandwich to share in the cost of birth control. I will never have to move this sandwich’s shoes from the middle of the hallway, where I’ve just tripped over them on my way to the bathroom in the dead of night, because sandwiches don’t wear shoes. I will certainly never find myself balled up in tears on one couch cushion at four in the morning, the sandwich alone in our shared bed, wondering why the sandwich is incapable of showing me it loves me or, even worse, why I might be incapable of registering expressions of love. You, you’re a human. All of those situations are not only possible, but probable.
But before we even got to that point, we’d have to go on a date. I’d have to tear my closet apart trying to find something to hide the unsightly belly my mother always tells me looks “gross” when I pooch it out. I’d have to pick the right bra to wear that I can wedge my debit card and driver’s license into without them falling out, of which there is imminent threat since I do not have Nature’s Wallet and I’ll be fucking damned if I’m carrying a purse. It is a fact I will eat more than you at the restaurant, and very likely this will be a turn off for you. Sandwich wouldn’t give a shit, because it lacks the cognizant capacity to formulate complex judgments, and also because I’d be eating it.
Sandwich supplies me with mayo, which I love. There’s the chance if I asked you to go get me some mayo you’d say “no.” And I’m not sure that’s a chance I’m willing to take. When sandwich and I are over, I just toss the wrapper in the trash. When you and I are over, I insist politely that you keep the nicer set of pots and pans and call you in two weeks to ask if you’ve seen my sheet music. Nobody will judge me if I finish the sandwich and quickly move on to something different, like a pudding cup. I will never call my mom in tears and explain why I just can’t be with this sandwich anymore. Well I might, I guess. I have a pretty emotional relationship with food. But it seems unlikely. Sandwich will never ask me to lie to its parents about my being an atheist, nor will it lock up my Facebook account by incorrectly guessing my password too many times.
You’re a great guy, you’re super nice and pretty cute and would probably be good to me. But you’re not a sandwich. So…yeah.