The pizza I ate this evening knocks impatiently on the door as if that’s a reasonable way to ask to leave. Clutching my stomach I hobble to the bathroom, quetiapine sends me back to sleep on the toilet, then the gates of hell open at my back passage.
I negotiate fiercely, “please, spicy wheat disk, don’t break anything on your way out”, tears and sweat dampen my face as I plead for my life.
“No problem, bestie, I’ll be quick” the pizza replies, before driving a 16 wheeler through my living room window.
I am left with nothing but rubble and haemorrhoids. Good pizza though.














