A Slice of Hate
There's a natural human tendency that tells us when you sit down and write something in your free time, it must be something significant, something worth your time.
I fucking hate that.
And you know what else I fucking hate? Left-over pizza.
Now before you Domino's denizens cast your first olive stones, just hear me out: I'm not hating on pizza. As if. People, I'm talking about left-over pizza. That's not pizza. It's stillborn pizza. Its development's been arrested. You wouldn't call a bowl of uterine sluice your brother, and you shouldn't call a left-over pizza a meal.
Listen, I sympathize. I really do. Ol' Snotty here has woken up many an afternoon and reached first for that pizza, wishing to recapture all the beauty and splendor and tender, warm moistness, the lightly salted bottom, the way it dimples to your touch when it's warm and you can just hold it and admire, your head loitering at first trepidatiously, then moving slowly toward it with your mouth until its heat overcomes you and, god, it just explodes in a million flavors. It's like going down on a young Sophia Loren. But in the morning when you nuzzle close for more she's gone gray and cold.
Look, friends, the next day is always worse. It can only be worse, and we know it will be worse. But. We. Just. Keep. Trying. Isn't it time we throw our hands in the air and give up? What are we really pursuing at this point?
I'm saying no to rubbery cheese that looks like frosted glass. I'm saying no more wet mushrooms. No more raisined olives. No more crust you knaw and you tear with your fist like an animal or a fool. I hate things that make me feel like a fool. I'm throwing my pizzas out the night before the next day because I fucking hate all that. I get so high and fall so low. No. Nuh uh. Not me. Not here. Not anymore. Snotty McShot doesn't do left-over pizza. And this little decision in this little waste of time has just made all those next days more worth my time.