To whomever is reading this: I am a cold, soggy-ass, lonely fucking slice of chickpea pizza. I was “baked” on March 10th (originally frozen a year prior). I used to gleefully bask in the cozy warmth of the Ferris heating lamps, lying in a puddle of my own grease. I would watch sleep-deprived, hungover students wander in at 10:30 in the morning and stare at me in disgust before turning instead to munch on the dry, crumbly powdered eggs that Ferris is renowned for. “Please eat me,” I used to think as I watched all of the students walking past. But no one did. No one ever does. I have fucking chickpeas on me, for fuck’s sake.
My pepperoni-topped brothers and sisters have all been eaten, my broccoli-adorned cousins all thrown into the trash. But now, I’m here. On March 13th, I was taken home by His Majesty Chef Mike for a possible lunch on his drive home, but, upon meeting his saliva-drenched taste buds, I was woefully spat out. Here I reside, alone in Chef Mike’s apartment, forgotten under the fridge staring up at a hundred unclaimed bobbleheads. There’s no chance that I’ll be eaten now, with all of this mold growing on me. I just want Chef Mike to catch the scent of my putrid, rotting self and end my pathetic existence. I know I smell horrible, but that’s just how I’ve always been. Please.
To those who sympathize with my story: please share this with your friends and find me and eat me like I deserve.
