So, I ordered a pizza and the guy on the phone was like, “Oh everybody from there is ordering tonight.” Apparently I’m the third person in my complex to order.
When I got off the phone, I started to worry that the pizzas would be all mixed up, which led to this conversation that never fucking happened.
Me: Excuse me, but this isn’t mine, I ordered cheese and mushroom.
Pizza guy: Ugh. God lady, can’t you just eat that one?
Me: I can’t. I don’t eat meat.
Pizza guy sighs in a put-upon manner, snatches the pizza from my hands and stomps off down the stairs. He returns two minutes later.
Pizza guy: Here.
Pizza guy: This is your pizza.
Me: Where was it?
Pizza guy: It was at your neighbors.
Me: Could I have a new one, please?
I would probably forget to actually say "please," because I’m prone to doing that, but the please is implied.
Pizza guy: Lady, it’s fine. They didn’t touch it.
Me: Did they open it?
Pizza guy: Lady, you opened the one you had.
I’m not sure why he keeps calling me ‘Lady.’ I hate imaginary Pizza guy.
Me: Exactly. So we should all have new pizzas.
Pizza guy: They’re your neighbors. What’s the problem?
Me: If they opened it, then they breathed on it, and I really don’t know my neighbors that well, so the thought of them breathing on my food kind of freaks me out.
It freaks me way the fuck out.
Pizza guy: The guy who cooked on it breathed on it.
Me: I try not to think about that. And I’ve never seen the cook, so I don’t have a mental image of him breathing on my pizza. At least, I didn’t.
Pizza guy: Look lady, they’re nice people. They didn’t do anything to the pizza. Just eat it.
Me: I didn’t say they did anything to it. I would just like a nice, fresh pizza that hasn’t been passed around my apartment complex.
Pizza guy: You’re a crazy bitch, you know that?
In most of my imaginary arguments someone ends up calling me a bitch. That probably means something. I’m not sure if it’s something bad or good, because in my real life arguments, I get called much worse things.
Pizza guy: Fine. I’ll be back.
But at this point I just want to cancel my order, because I’m convinced that either someone is going to spit on my new, fresh pizza, or Pizza guy is just going to drive this pizza around the block and bring it back. With spit.
P.S. It was a really stressful forty-five minutes to an hour, but as it turns out, the correct pizza was delivered, and the pizza guy was completely pleasant.