I remember the first time I saw you sitting at the College Ave. Student Center. I was going to get Wendy’s, but something about you, the Gerlanda’s Pizza Tre Colore slice, seemed so appealing. You were pulled out of the oven, your smell of fresh mozzarella cheese wafted in my direction. It felt like we were meant to be. Watching the nice Gerlanda’s woman slice you into pieces sent chills up my spine. I knew I had to have you.
I should’ve known discount pizza would give me the shits. Your plum tomatoes, feta, and onions blinded me. I didn’t think about the way my body would react. Your red and watery sauce dripped everywhere—and soon so would my asshole. I thought I’d be okay. I was not.
I was in the middle of an exam about plate tectonics, then something shifted in me. I had to run from my class to the crusty bathroom with tiny, tiny stalls. I then ran onto the first F bus I found and braced myself for a bumpy ride. It felt like a volcano inside me was about to erupt every time we went over a pothole.
I ran back to Mettler and used the communal bathroom. No soul dared to come in while the whole contents of my stomach were being released. I was lonely, broken, and out of toilet paper. You weren’t even that good, I was just hungry as fuck.
I’m still healing, and I know I’m not the only person you hurt. The bathroom janitor is still cleaning up the mess and the plumber said it might take weeks to fully fix the pipes.
Now I can’t even walk into the student center without my asshole clenching. I dreamt of one trying anal, but I can’t think of my butthole in the same way anymore.
Sometimes I still want to try another Gerlanda’s slice, possibly meatball parmesan or maybe even a Hawaiian slice, but I have learned my lesson. I would be lying if I said I don’t think about you from time to time, but I am growing without you. Thank you for all the memories, but next time I will be eating Zookini’s (formerly known as Skinny Vinny’s pizza).
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