I've gone over a thousand different ways to say this, but there is no good way; I just need to say it. It just wouldn't work out between us. And while I hate telling you this in a letter, I only have an hour for lunch, and I don't want to spend it fighting.

Look, you seem like a really nice girl. There are a lot of things I like about you. First of all, you smell like bread. I'm assuming that also means you know your way around a kitchen, as long as it's filled with plastic bins of precut vegetables. But then I wonder if sandwiches are the only thing you know how to make. I'm at a point in my life where I'm not willing to eat more than five or six sandwiches a week, and I don't want to be in the type of relationship where everything is so" routine.

I was first attracted to you by the way you'd let me order my sandwiches how I want, and I'll admit, I wanted to find out if you're as accommodating in the boudoir. But lately you've started using too much mustard, and last week I distinctly said SWEET peppers, not spicy. It's those types of communication problems that make me wonder if we would really work out well together.

Also, I really hate that you're now charging me 30 cents more for my cheesesteak combo. I've been in too many relationships with women who take, take, take, and no matter what I do it's never enough. It's possible that you're different, but I'm not willing to take that chance. Don't give me any bullshit about corporate price raises; that's how it always starts. It only got worse when you stopped accepting the Sub Club cards. I was two stamps away from a free six-inch. How do I know that six months into the relationship you won't tell me you're no longer offering blowjobs? Prices and participation may vary in your business, but that's not okay when it comes to love.

There's more. You're probably going to find out anyway, so I should just tell you now: I've been seeing someone else. It's the cashier from Teriyaki Boy. I'm not saying this to hurt you, but there's more synergy between me and her. First of all, she gives me more. For six fifty, I get teriyaki chicken, rice, salad, California rolls, and a soda. You give me less food, but charge 7.92" oh wait, I'm sorry, make that 8.20, now that you're a gold digger. The way she rushes me for my money and practically throws my change at me tells me she's a woman on the go. She seems so young and vibrant. She wants to live life at full speed. She GIVES orders, she doesn't take them.

Deep down, if you ask yourself, I think you know I'm right. You've seemed distant lately, and yesterday you asked me what type of sandwich I had, even though you know I always get roasted chicken on Thursdays. There was also something missing when you asked me if I wanted chips and a soda. Until today, when you'd ask, "chips and soda?" you'd trail off at the end, as if the words, "" or me?" still weighed hopefully on the tip of your tongue. But today I knew for sure that we weren't meant to be together when you looked at the customer behind me before I had even handed you my eight twenty. You might say it was because we were in the middle of the lunch rush, but I know you couldn't bear to look me in the eye.