Pizza

Pizza. There. She did it. Every single time she stares at that glowing white rectangle with blinking black ‘I’ in the left top corner, the first word that comes to her mind is Pizza. It’s a tic. She has no control, takes no responsibility. My name is Aida, and I’m an alcoholic. Absolution through forced voluntary admission. Perhaps now her slate’d be clean, now she could talk about anything without knowing an Italian delight would slowly be cooling in the corner, left dejectedly out, rejected by her inability to reign in her mind. Pizza, pizza pizza. The reason she purged.