I'm Killing Myself

Last night, I found myself staring longingly at the slice of pizza in my hand, the same way a junkie looks upon a needle ready for their next fix.   I knew there was no way I was putting the slice down, I'd already gotten my first fix over 15 years ago, and I saw no end in sight for my addiction.   With trembling hands, I devoured the pizza, laced with the greasiest ingredients known to man, and afterwards, did I feel satisfied?   Absolutely not, I wanted much, much more.

And then it struck me, it could be the next day, month or year, at any given moment, I could die.   Yes, all it takes is a slice, just one slice too far, and just like that, I could overdose.   My neighbour or a concerned friend kicks down my door after weeks of not seeing me, and finds me strewn out over my bed, half eaten slice in one hand, garlic dip in the other.   The mourning comes, and then the anger, questions are raised about how I was allowed to order so much pizza without being flagged as an addict.   The story gathers widespread attention and hits the national press, suddenly, pizza is accepted as the addictive substance that it always has been, rehabs begin to accept pizza addicts, and a new piece of legislation known as 'Harry's Law' comes into practice, banning us from pizzas without medical approval.

Of course, this doesn't have to happen.   I could cut down on pizza, or stop it entirely, but I know the same thing is going to happen to some other poor victim, so I may as well enjoy it while it's still legal.

Pizza, it's better than heroin.