In one of my more banal existences, I made sandwiches at a local delicatessen for a modest wage.  While not as soul-crushing as other professions I would later occupy, the job offered enough idleness to foster angst-ridden, pseudo-philosophy worthy of Updike’s A&P cashier.  One of my tasks was to dispose of unwanted sandwich meats at the end of the night.  I would weigh them, tally the loss and toss.

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