Pizza for Mia

Coming home from work I was too tired to stop anywhere for food.  The rain was pouring, my cupboards were bare and my feet - they were sore. It was a long day of standing talking to people who pretended to be interested in Direct Care Work just so they can get a free pen.   A free .49  pen.

So I came home and got in bed with my "I survived the Newsies Square Explosion" t-shirt and hopped on www.papajohns.com.   Apparently, you really can order a pizza from the net and have it delivered - no cash needed.

That was 40 mins ago.

According to my email, my estimated delivery time is 35-45 minutes.  They're cutting it close and I hope to find a red-pocket-carrying pizza man on my doorstep in the next few minutes or else - ah - let's face it -  as an achey and crippled version of my former self the worst I can do is send a "Hey dudes!  Where's my f'n pizza???" email in a snarky tone.  

Oh! It's here!

Ack! The Pizza Delivery Boy was just here (I had a HUGE job fair today and the idea of making dinner for just me was about as appealing as having a root canal with no Novocain - again) and me in my oversized t-shirt and mussed-up eyeliner and frizzy hair answered the door.  Darn it - he was cute! I was like 'Hello Pizza Boy - wanna come in and feed me garlic buttery sticks of dough?"  What can I say - I'm a sucker for a boy in a Papa John's uniform who reeks of garlic.  Blame Harry for that one.

Instead I commented about the weather (proving again how freakin' old I am) and sent him on his merry way.

 

And there endeth any chance I had of being published.   In Penthouse.

ahahahah!