Assumption: You Don’t Like Pineapple On Pizza

Assumption: you don’t like pineapple on pizza

three hours soul-dead into my shift; i would’ve swallowed plaster if it meant i could leave. droning phones—sales script, etc. etc. (who here hasn’t been dehumanized by minimum wage?) my manager came in to send us all home. we’re closing early today because of the coup. the coup? the fucking coup? what fucking coup? born-again-nazis-illusioned-for-justice climbing the walls, apparently. brought ladders and guns, apparently. to washington, apparently. sir, we live in canada?? doesn’t really matter. we close (no, we’re not getting compensated, but it doesn’t really matter because see aforementioned statement re: plaster). at home (thrilled and confused) i find my sister cutting fresh pineapple on the laminate countertop, and take a big bowl as a reward for not eating plaster. i sit on the rug. i prop up my laptop and watch the news from five thousand kilometers away. the president tells his thugs that they’re “special people”. fun times. fun times. around then, swallowing (something i have historically been very good at) becomes as insurmountable as the american capitol building (a-fucking-pparently). pineapple is my forbidden fruit—because that was the day i finally realized i was allergic to pineapple :(