As I write this, my stomach feels like it's turning inside out. I'm 28 years old – I shouldn't be feeling like I need to rush to the hospital, like my heart is about leap out of my chest because my clogged arteries forgot how to be arteries. I've already thrown up once today, and the best thing about this slow day at work is that I can just gently place my head on my desk, close my eyes and wait for my ass to tell me when it's ready for its next makeout sesh with the toilet.
Yes, I had Pizza Hut's Hot Dog Bites
pizza last night.
The quality of the pie is just what you'd expect from a chain pizza restaurant: processed everything with little bits of artificial "other things" thrown in here and there. Why'd I do it? It was fast, and I was hungry. I have no good excuse and now I'm paying for it. For those that don't know, the pie is laced around the crust with little pigs in a blanket, dipping their noses into my cheese and sauce like it's some demonic watering hole.
The whole adventure is a desperate struggle for satisfaction that will leave even the strongest pizza aficionados blue-balled and groaning. You'll never get a clean break as you ravenously tear the little sausages from their crust sanctuary. These aren't catered hors d'oeuvres, pal. You're going to scratch and claw your dogs away from the pizza like an animal, or you can just start with the pizza first and work your way to the back. I don't recommend either. Just throw it away.
I don't know what I'm gonna do with the rest of my day. I can't walk anywhere without brandishing a face like my dog died, and I'm afraid to untether myself from the bathroom for longer than 15 minutes. This is my life now. This is what I've done to myself.
If this is my last blog, with my dying keystroke, I curse Pizza Hut and their bullshit weenie pie. You have been warned.