Dear Pizza, my old friend: we need to talk. Things haven’t been that great between us for a while. As sad as this makes me feel, we need to break up. It’s not you – it’s me.
I hope you understand and can live on our memories together, as I will.
I’m not sure exactly when we met. It could have been at Carol’s Corner in South Whitley, Indiana, during my childhood. My parents sometimes took us to the drive-in for a cheese pizza. All four of us shared one pizza in the car.
We spent a ton of time together in college; those were some of our most intimate days. Sometimes I saw you nearly every night.
As an adult, I saw you on my travels. Remember our many good times in Chicago? And what about the little shop in Stratford, Ontario before we saw “The Merchant of Venice?” Our peak moment together was in Orvieto, Italy, on a cool fall day as we sat together outside an Italian café on a cobblestone street.
Not all our moments were good.
I can barely write these words about the horrors of our visit in New York City. You tried to pass yourself off as something you were not. It was not a pleasant time for someone from the Midwest.
This morning, very early, our relationship came to an end. We spent last evening together, and I was ready for you to go. But you wouldn’t leave. You woke me up at 3 a.m. for no good reason.
I also resent the reminders of you that you’ve left with me; they cling to me and remind me of the worst parts of you.
It’s been a good run, but it’s over. Goodbye, pizza. Love, Amy