New Theory

Ok, here's the new definitive reason I'm single.

Of course, me being me and thinking the way that I do I should totally preface this with a disclaimer that this theory has in no way been tested scientifically which means that I may very well be datable and lovable no matter the number of times I speak to the contrary.

Me also being me, this theory must in some fucked up way involve food. In this case, PIZZA!

It's all part of my unique language I have dubbed Chrisenese. If you don't speak it, you may sometimes think you are picking up the thread of what's going on in the conversation, but you'll never be quite sure.

So, I was having pizza for dinner the other night. Two things happened.

The second was that I decided after eating the whole damned thing-or as I like to put it, I fell face first into the thing and sucked-that a medium pizza should be enough to make two meals of. Not the type where you eat half one day and half the next. The type where you have someone with you eating half-maybe with a salad for balance.

THAT, I thought to myself as I dusted crust crumbs off my shirt, is what I need a boyfriend for.

And THAT, I thought immediately afterwards, is why I will never have a boyfriend. They aren't there to keep you from gorging yourself on pizza. Of that I am pretty sure.

People who know me won't be surprised that I started with the second occurrence of the evening when describing my pizza stained epiphanies. They know me well enough to not even hope for me to back track to the first one.

But, in this case...you lucky dogs. It was nearly embarrassing to me, so you know I will totally talk about it!

The first thing that happened was that the pizza guy I have a crush on was my delivery guy that night. Yay! I so want to smear pizza all over him and do rude things to him.

Anyway, he shows up and I have broken routine and not left my money clip on the table by the door. I tell him to come on in and go to the kitchen to get it...where else would it be? He puts the pizza down on the counter as I start flipping past the small bills I keep on the outside of my clip for bus fare, looking for a twenty. I flip past about five twenties before I realize I didn't have any small bills on the outside of my money clip as per my usual. I also notice out of the corner of my eye that this guy is looking like he's getting propositioned...and doesn't mind. He looks kind of comfortable with the idea.

FML.

I grin sheepishly at not paying attention, give the guy a twenty and start crying on the inside. My lusty pizza delivery guy is a hooker.

I am reminded of my amused reluctance to find a new pizza place after I moved to First Hill from Belltown. I didn't want to give up my Zeek's Pizza. I had gotten drunken slices at Hot Mama's on the Hill and thought they would be the next closest thing, rather than waiting over an hour for Zeek's to make it across town.

The thing that amused me about my reluctance was that I had heard rumors of-and I thought these to be just urban legends-the Hot Mama's guys working for their tips, if you get my drift.

This was back before my time in Seatown. In the era of the Timberline night club. An era that has passed, I assumed taking the Hot Mama's hookers with it.

The reality ended up being that the delivery guys were all gals. Really nice ones, too. Alternative and edgy with an "I can kick your ass seventeen different ways" kind of vibe. But really nice.

Until my little hottie started delivering to me. Every time I see him, I almost tell him that I lust him-barely catching myself before I hit on him while he's working.

Now, I guess it would have been ok.

FML, again! No one to share a pizza with and now no one to share a pizza delivery fantasy with. Boo-frickin'-hoo.