Mitts

Dear Girl I Left At The Pizzeria On 2nd Ave,

Sometimes in life there are things that are out of our control, and we really can't be blamed for the consequences. Other times, well, not so much...

Listen, trust me when I tell you that I also wasn't expecting that I would be running at full bore down 2nd Avenue drunk late at night in flip flops. Really, that wasn't part of my plan either. But in retrospect I'm pretty sure there are two reasons this happened. One might not have been your fault. The other? Yeah.

1. YOU HAVE MITTS THE SIZE OF A GRIZZLY BEAR. This one's not your fault. I can't help that baby jesus made me a certain way, and he decided that I would be attracted to small, dainty women, and that's just how my internal circuitry is rigged. I don't like beasts. I can't change that. Neither can you change your affliction, which is why I feel bad holding it against you, and I wasn't going to ding you based on that alone. This is America. Land of opportunity.

2. I've had that late-night drunk thing going on, you know, where you're ravenously hungry and need to fill up after a debilitating happy hour on an empty stomach. I get that, and I get why you suggested we go to the pizzeria across the street. I just don't think this was the best move on your part. If you weren't 6 feet tall with gigantic paws, maybe it works. But for a girl like you? Christ. Go home and eat in the dark. Because when we sat down at the place, and you started cramming that vegetable pizza in your cake hole with those enormous veiny mitts, and all the various toppings were stuck either between your teeth or -- even worse -- stuck to the front of your lip gloss like a yardwork face mask, it was just all way too much for me. There we hit the point of no return, and this part was really all your doing.

So, I did what any gentleman in my situation would do: I picked up my phone, said hello, excused myself to take the important call on my cell phone that had been vibrating in my pocket (all a lie), stepped outside as I chatted with NOBODY, slowly shimmied out of sight, and then -- gracefully -- hauled ass as fast as I could, in flip flops, blind drunk, down Second Avenue.

No hard feelings? Trust me when I tell you that I did you a favor -- I saw the way you were looking at that pizza, and I'd only have been a disappointment after that.