Like a big pizza pie

Today is going to be rainy, and I have no clothes left. This means I won’t feel guilty for spending the day doing mundane things. I got my coffee and set out to find a laundromat. Oh a thrift shop!

So I was in there for two hours, chatting with the owner about the usual things; every job we’ve ever had, how to dye a couch with tea bags, and where we were on 9/11. I bought some pink pants from the 80s. She gave me a brooch, offered to cut my hair, and did my laundry for me out back. It was brilliant.

Starving. I walked into a pizza place, sat down, and ordered a pizza. “A personal pie?”. I stared at the waitress blankly. I just ordered a pizza, why is she talking to me about pies? She said “You know, you can just order by the slice, you probably don’t want a whole pie”. I know, I want a pizza. She walked me over to the display. I chose two slices and sat back down. Ahhh – Pizza pie. I get it. My slices were brought out, and oh my god they are the size of my head. How am I going to eat these? I feel like she knew I wouldn’t be able to, and now I’m going to have to. I know what you’re thinking “You don’t have to eat it all just because you’re embarrassed, and using your head as a measurement for pizza is confusing as they are completely different shapes”. You’re probably right.

Customers wandered in and out acknowledging each other by name. This happens everywhere, I get that, but hearing normal life roll along in a New York accent makes you feel like you’ve stepped into a filler scene of some TV show.

On the way home I found a place that was 50% second-hand memorabilia, 50% the owner’s personal artwork. He said he didn’t make much money off of the artwork.

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