By Michael Reis
Dear Pizza,
I just need to get this off my chest, okay? Please just, don’t judge me for like five minutes while you read this. God, I sound ridiculous, you’ve never judged me. I feel like you’re too good to me, but at the same time, you’re destroying me inside. You’ve taught me so much yet I feel like you haven’t said anything… like, at all. I miss the way you fit perfectly in my hand, and yes, I forgive you for making me bite my cheek and burning my tongue, but I’m running out of excuses.
I love you.
There, now you know how I feel. I try to pretend like I don’t because I know how people look at us. I know I shouldn’t care, I know that no matter how much I try, I’m just going to keep coming back to you. Even just writing this I can remember everything about you like you were with me right now. Your smell, the way you taste on my lips, that pit in my stomach when we aren’t together, even the burning feeling of people’s eyes drilling into me while I indulge in the pleasure you provide. Remember that time I just ravaged you in front of all those people in the foodcourt at the mall? I can’t help it anymore, I think… I think I need to see you. Taste you. Love you. Just one more time. Hell, why do we have to be apart?
What do those doctors know anyways? They’ve been wrong before, but the way I feel about you just can’t be wrong. It just can’t be. They say that you’re bad for me, they talk about you like you’re some deadly poison and that I’d be a mad man to continue being with you. They say I should just replace you, like it would even be that easy. I have a confession to make. I tried—I tried to replace you. I’ve tried others before, but they don’t how to treat me like you do. I even tried to cover you up, like some irrelevant toppings could somehow convince me that I was better off without you. But I couldn’t, and I want you to know that. I want you to know that I’m sorry, pizza, I’m so freaking sorry.
I feel like I’m being split into eight, equal sized, pieces and that each one comes to a perfect point and that you’re at the center. I feel like I’ve just been keeping these feelings boxed up inside for so long, like I’ve been carried around and delivered to anybody who claimed to have the answer. It’s like somebody took this normal, boring person, rolled him out flat, tossed him in the air, covered him with desirabilities, put him the oven and called that person Michael Reis.
I see you everywhere I go. I see your pictures on billboards, your commercials on television, I even hear people talking about you on the radio. When I saw you today on my TV, I couldn’t get over how good you looked. You just looked so… hot. I don’t know how else to put it. I’m sorry for sounding weird, but I know that I’m not the only one who feels this way about you. I know that somewhere, there’s some other person staring up the moon wanting to shred that big ball of cheese, cover a dough planet with an ocean of marinara, sprinkle it with the moon, flatten it out, and set it 425 degrees from the sun until the edges get golden brown.
I know that you’re only a phone call away, but I don’t even know which number to call anymore. You’ve always told me—ALWAYS, that you could be here in 30 minutes if I ever needed you, but that’s why I’m writing you this letter today.
My phone’s dead. I need a large pepperoni. Please hurry,
Mike
About Michael
Michael is one of those dorks who loves to play chess and will quote Voltaire and Darth Vader in the same sentence with the same level of conviction. He’s easily excitable, passionately accepting, and really wishes that random passersby would let him hug them without notice or acquaintance. He’s a bit quirky, but has a serious side when it comes to politics and religion. Michael also loves to eat.
