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| - Semi-intoxicated update:
The scene: 34-year old who had two beers on a saturday afternoon weaves in and requests a cheese slice in which she thinks is the politest way she can manage.
The experience: hot from the oven, she carries her piece of delectability home, quietly mumbling to the warm, cheese mass "you are mine. Shhhh, no one will take you from me."
The moment: in her apartment, she picks the cheese slice up with her fingers. She pulls a piece off a triangle, yelling at it because it took all the cheese with it and oh no, it must leave cheese for the others.
She eats it once piece at a time, revelling in the highly-flavourful sauce and nuanced crust that DOESN'T EVEN NEED DIPPING SAUCE (dipping sauce is the cosmetic surgery of bad pizza).
Soon finished, she wipes the grease from her hands, fully satiated and dreamy-eyed. She passes out at a reasonable 8pm on a Saturday, with the lingering smell of oregano and tomato playing in her living room.
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