I had been eating most of my lunches at Subway anyway, given its proximity to my summer job, so there was nothing out of the ordinary that prompted that visit.

I ordered my usual. Six-inch veggie on Italian herb & cheese, not toasted please. The works. No tomatoes.

As I made my way down the assembly line towards the register, I noticed something about Scrabble. Immediately I thought of the death of Facebook’s Scrabulous, and cried a little.

But then I got my sandwich and beverage and noticed a tiny message on the side of my cup and on the paper wrapping of my sandwich that dared me to “peel here.” Feeling adventurous, I peeled right there and was the proud owner of one free cookie (good on next order, no substitutes), and the letter “R.”

Turns out that Subway Scrabble was similar to McDonald’s Monopoly. You spell a word like “fresh,” “Subway” or “airplane” (or get a few letters from each) and you’ve won a trip to Jamaica, one hundred grand. An airline ticket (who could’ve guessed that one?).

From then on, I was hooked. I counted down the minutes at work until paper peeling pleasure at noon every day. Most of the time, I got more “R”s. There were a few “S”s and, once, even an “E.” That night, I drank to my first vowel.

But soon enough, my lunchtime rendezvous weren’t enough to feed my addiction. I started looking for other reasons to frequent the various Subways around Madison. Like to celebrate that the cicada living on my window ledge had sex (then died). Or because I remembered to refill my birth control this month (or forgot). Or maybe my boyfriend just lost all his groceries. And plates. And silverware (that usually reappear after our mealtime Scrabtastic satisfaction).

After a while, not only was one Scrabble meal a day not enough, but one meal’s worth of letters a day wasn’t cutting it anymore either. So I rounded up the troops.

“Where should we go for breakfast?” a friend asked on our way to the Dells.

“I could go for some bagels,” someone else responded.

“Pastries sound good,” another voice chimed in.

“I know the perfect place,” I said.

After directing three hungry and disappointed boys to Subway at 9 a.m. on a Wednesday morning, I made sure they all ordered the jumbo sodas that have two letters instead of one.

It soon became my answer to everything: “Where should we have my birthday dinner this year?”

Well, the Monday Subway cashier girl is an ex-touring folk singer. I’m sure she does a fantastic “Happy Birthday.”

“My cat just died. Can we talk?”

Of course, we can have a good cry over a chicken teriyaki or a meatball marinara!

“I have mono. Stay away from me.”

I heard that Subway’s sandwiches are laced with Percocet and Vicodin. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.

I quit my job. It was getting in the way, and I couldn’t focus anymore with the voice in my head screaming (give me an “R,” give me an “M,” give me a “V”) over and over.

I lost weight. A lot. My eyes became permanently encircled by dark crevices. None of my friends wanted to hang out anymore. And I started injecting my sandwiches for more intense pleasure. I trolled the streets at night for letters. I found a dealer. Won a whole sandwich once. But I owe him money. I think he’s going to kill me.

Went to rehab. Made some good friends and finally shared the traumatic story from my childhood of the time my family went to Subway without me while I was at a sleepover party. I haven’t spoken to them since.

I went cold turkey for a while, but today I Scrabble a healthy number of times a week. My sponsor is proud.

I’m back to my normal weight now and have rekindled old relationships. But every time I peel back a new letter, I can’t help the adrenaline rush or the resulting euphoria. I’m pretty sure it’s not threatening anymore, though. It’s just a soft reminder of the beach vacation or Jacuzzi full of cash that could’ve been but is no more.

If you have an F, a U, a Y or a V, e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu and she’ll share her prize. Maybe.