Homeless pizza.

Last night I saw this homeless man twice. He was tall with long hair and he was walking around wrapped in this thick, dirty looking, black wool blanket. It was huge. The first time I saw him, he was walking down the sidewalk in front of the hospital, staring at his feet. There was something about him that wouldn't let me look away. You know. Until I had to look away. Because. I was driving a car. A moving one. The second time I saw him, Tony and I were on our way to this white-trash pizza buffet we're addicted to [all you can eat bread and cheese and sausage for $3.99! Erm. No wonder the gym has NO EFFECT ON ME...] and he was sitting on the side of the road, right outside the restaurant. He was holding a sign that said, 'homeless...please help'.

So. I'm generally too shy to do things like this, but when we were done eating, I bought a takeout box and filled it as full of pizza as I could. I was really nervous about giving it to him. I didn't know what I'd say and I didn't want him to be embarrassed. While I was moderately calm due to the fact that I was currently under the influence of fucking elephant tranquilizers, Tony and I got in the car and started driving toward where he was sitting and I practiced what I would say to him. After much deliberation, I figured that I would say something like, 'Here' or 'This is some pizza...I hope you're not a vegetarian because there's pork all over this shit'. But it didn't matter. BECAUSE HE WAS GONE. I made Tony drive up and down the street, but he was NOWHERE. I was really depressed about the whole thing. That is, until we went to D's house and I mixed my sedatives with some malt liquor and spent the rest of the night drooling on myself and playing Dr. Mario.

I gave the pizza to D who is, coincidentally, a vegetarian.
Fuckit.