pietasters.

Last night’s trip to Vincent’s was my first in years — actually, the last time I was there was probably a year and a half or so ago, but that was just to pick up a pizza to deliver to a workin’ brother-in-law for a firefighters’ Steelers party. So I didn’t actually eat it.

Last night I ate it, decidedly so. I ate the hell out of it. A bunch of us did. And it was greasy and amazingly good. I remember when I was growing up I was forbidden from going there because it just wasn’t a healthy atmosphere for a child to be in. Also, my mom thought the pizza was gross because of the potential for Vincent’s cigarette ash getting in your pizza.

Nowadays Vincent is gone (well, not GONE, he’s still alive but not really working anymore) but the pizza is still tasty, even without the chance for ashes in your grease. The possibility of a rumble is still present (why were those dudes looking at us so funny? We were just watching Rock Star and talking about Jada Pinkett Smith’s death metal band!). The slightly surly staff are keeping the tradition alive. And the grease pool in the middle of the pan is alive and well.

This morning I felt rather not well, like I was majorly hungover or something, and it may have been the grease clogging my brain. More likely I was dehydrated from drinking all sweet substances (see below, post about Lemon Blennd) and no water last night.

Tonight I read, and maybe make food for work tomorrow? (It’s my student worker’s last day.) I’ve been inexplicably exhausted this week — well, perhaps explicably, based on the heat and my troubles sleeping earlier in the week. Regardless, rest tonight. And this weekend. And be a new Andy come Monday.