You walked in at 16:39, your prepubescent beard coming through and your voice somehow breaking, even though you’re 16 at least. But who am I to judge? I am, after all, just the pizza you forgot.
You seem like a boring person, you asked for me with just beef, the worst meat one can get on a pizza. It makes me much chewier than I have to be because it’s the cheap cuts that are left after all the good pieces have been sold for much more. So much for taste. You wanted no vegetables, no other meats, all you would accompany me with was ranch dressing, something that would overpower any flavour I provided, because it’s packed with salt and additives, while you made me a bland cheese disc with leather on top.
You paid 20 dollars for me, and then you left, saying you’d come back to get me soon. But an hour has passed, and you haven’t come back. I’ve been laid to rest, in 75 degree heat, in the top oven, so that I’m still warm when you remember me. It’s like they say, ‘The body ain’t dead till it’s cold’.
If you don’t come back soon, my cheese will begin a slow burn, it doesn’t go brown, it goes orange. Just how you’d look with a tan, the only difference is that when I tan, my skin become even tougher and starts to taste pretty fucking shit.
But before my tanning, you will have an even more pressing issue, the box, and the steam inside, when combined, will make the lid sag, and soon, my top and the lid will merge to form the ultimate pizza crime, a non consensual topping rip off. And it will ultimately be your doing, for while the lid remains closed, I am fine, but the second you open this box, my top will be ripped off. My quality, ruined, my midsection, scarred.
All this suffering, simply because you couldn’t remember to pick me up. I hope your pizza free life is a good one, because pretty soon, I’ll only be a disappointment to you.