Say Cheese!

For a long time, I deprived myself of pizza.  I thought it was bad.  A bad food.  A fatty cheesy slab of badness that I should stay away from.  

I said, Kathryn, order a salad.  Order some grilled chicken.  Make yourself a sandwich.  Do not eat the pizza.  And I did not.  I did not eat the pizza for a long time. 

But I am dating Jared.  And Jared is The Pizza King.  This is not an exaggeration.  If there was a realm of pizza, Jared would be ruler.  There is no food about which he is more passionate.  He lives in a town known for its magical pizza.  He is surrounded by pie-throwing mobsters Italians.  

I fought off his influence for a long time, but I could hold out no longer.  I had a taste of his pizza.  I had a slice of his pizza.  I began craving pizza.  I needed my own pizza.  All.  The.  Time.  

Now, when I drive to Jared's house, I have a Pavlovian reaction.  From the minute I get on Parkway North, I begin to salivate.  I dream of marinara sauce and mozzarella cheese and oil and dough.  I think of brick ovens.  I imagine flour flying as pizzas dance in the air, spin in circles, land gracefully on waiting hands.  

I have become a pizza addict.  I need it at least once a week.  When I get to Jared's I say "Hi Honey" and what I mean is "GET ME PIZZA NOW BOY!"  I am ashamed.  It's an addiction.  He has me under his spell.  The spell of him and his evil pizza.  

Note:  This post was composed last night, after the consumption of two slices of pizza and one...okay, two...fine, maybe a little more than two....glasses of sparkling wine, at which point I found it incredibly necessary to write a long and detailed post about the attributes of pizza.  Please keep this in mind when questioning my mental well-being after reading the above.

{Photo by Adam "Slice" Kuban}