Hot People Kick the Habit

I have a pizza problem. Like, for serious. Pizza is like heroin to me (not to minimize the plight of heroin addicts - if Trainspotting has taught me nothing else, it's taught me that the life of a junkie is dirty and shitty, and rife with really sick-making hallucinations, all set to a killer soundtrack). Seriously, though. If I'm not eating pizza, I'm thinking of when I'm going to eat pizza next. When I run out of pizza, I'm hatching plans to get more pizza.

I think I hit an all-time low this past week. On Monday, I was at a luncheon at which they served pizza (does anyone else have a problem with the juxtaposition of a classy word like luncheon and a greasy, cheese-smothered word like pizza?). There were leftovers, so of course I totally took some home. I had it mostly for lunches - once for breakfast when I was in too much of a hurry to spoon my usual vanilla yogurt into a bowl and then spoon it into my mouth (it's the extra step, you see...I can just stuff the pizza directly into my mouth, bypassing the spoon altogether). Instead I just grabbed the last slice of Adriana Pesto.

I thought that was the end of it, too. But then I had a party on Saturday. In addition to the copious amounts of cake (copious! with hilarious icing-writing inscriptions), we also ordered enough pizza to feed the standing army of a small country like Andorra or Lichtenstein. The result of this overorder was that Sunday morning left me with almost three full extra-large pizzas. Extra-delicious on the second day, I had some for lunch, all the while fully planning on cooking an actual supper made from foods from the four food groups later that evening.

As luck would have it, though, my power went out at suppertime. No power means no stove means no wholeseome dinner :( But, there was still some perfectly good cheese pizza on the counter...voilà! Dinner for one! I had some more as a midnight snack. And then some more for breakfast the next day. I think I had consumed nearly an entire extra-large pizza when I realized that I wasn't sure if it was me or somebody else who had eaten the other half of the half-eaten slice of pepperoni I picked up off the coffee table to nibble on that afternoon. THAT's when I decided this pizza thing had gone too far!

I'm off pizza now. There's just no two ways about it. I don't think I can ever have another piece of pizza as long as I live. This is good, because it was just another one of those foods contributing to my inability to hunt down skirts in my size (and probably also pants and tops). Now when I think of pizza my stomach gets a little queasy. I can't think of pizza. I'm sure if I see another hot, greasy, tomato-ey, melty cheesy slice....mmm....slice....

A wedge or two after the bar isn't cheating, now...is it?