Lombardi’s

From my obsessive Yelp archives….

Finally having a Lombardi’s pie is similar, I imagine, to sleeping with a hot girl you’ve been eying for a while.

“Hey, hot girl,” you say to her after you’ve cleaned yourself up, “that was nice. That was really special. I’ll call you.”

But you don’t call the hot girl, and you’re not sure. A week goes by, and she’s texted once or twice. But when you really think about hot girl, seriously analyze hot girl, her eyes are a little too far apart. How did you not see that before? Maybe you were too busy looking at her chest. And while she was a perfectly adequate lay, she wasn’t exactly amazing. No, she just kind of laid there, looking hot, knowing how hot she you think she is and how much you want to do her.

Actually, the more you think about hot girl the more turned off you feel. “I bet,” you think, “if she wasn’t so hot she would have been better in bed. Or maybe,” and this is really throwing you for a loop, “I just projected this. Maybe, because I wanted her so long I built her up into a goddess, when she’s just another hot girl with wide-set eyes and a boring sex drive.”

You let another phone call from the hot girl go to voicemail and sadly shake your head. “Goodbye, hot girl,” you whisper. “I’ll always miss your meatballs.”

lombardi's pizza

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