Every now and then—usually when I’m sitting around minding my own business, sipping something cold, letting the world drift by—I’ll get hit with one of those memories from way back.

No warning. No reason.
Just… poof.

A moment from my past rolls in like a lazy tumbleweed, makes itself comfortable, and says, “Remember this, dummy?”

And suddenly I’m fourteen again.
Parents gone.
House empty.

And me—left completely, unquestionably, gloriously alone.

Now… leave a teenager by himself for an entire day and night—what does he do?

Walk around with his hair all slicked back like a discount Don Johnson…
…and eat two large pizzas.

Naturally.

I still can’t remember where my family went—errands? Vegas? Alien abduction?—but suddenly I had the whole house to myself. Zero responsibilities. No chores. No siblings. No adults reminding me to “turn that thing down.” My only mission: don’t burn the place down.

So I embraced the freedom.

Atari controller in hand. HBO movies that were definitely PG-13 at best. A steady stream of snacks: grapes, dry cereal right out of the box, maybe a nap (there’s a mysterious two-hour gap in my memory—I blame sugar).

Then destiny struck.

Tucked between a pile of mail was a coupon—Round Table Pizza: two large pepperoni pizzas for twelve bucks… PLUS a free 2-liter Coke. The Holy Trinity of Teenage Nutrition.

I didn’t hesitate.
I didn’t blink.
I called.

Forty minutes later the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find a pizza delivery guy holding two steaming boxes stacked like edible treasure chests, the Round Table knight shining bright on each lid, and a glorious, ice-cold, sweating 2-liter of Coke. It might as well have had heavenly rays shooting out of it.

And it was all for me.
Just me.

I tore into the first box like I hadn’t eaten since the Carter administration. Episodes of “Not Necessarily the News,” “Mr. Wizard’s World,” and “Knight Rider” played in the background as slice after slice disappeared down my teenage abyss. I washed every few bites down with gulps of Coke that could’ve stripped paint off a car.

Every now and then a deep, seismic belch rumbled up from my core—long, resonant, biblical. The kind of burp that makes you proud but also slightly concerned. The kind that echoes.

At some point I looked down and both pizzas… were gone.
Vanished.
Erased from existence.
I stared at the empty boxes like they had personally betrayed me.

For a while, I sat there pretending everything was fine.
Full? Yes.
Happy? Yes.
Delirious with sodium? Absolutely.

Then came phase two.
A slow, creeping discomfort.
Then the drowsiness.
Then the sudden, catastrophic drop into full-scale pizza coma.

I don’t remember moving, but apparently my body went into autopilot. I must’ve zombie-walked to my bedroom and collapsed because the next thing I knew, it was morning.

I woke up with a headache.
A bellyache.
Dry mouth like I’d licked the Sonoran Desert.
Regret? Maybe a whisper.

Worth it?
Oh absolutely worth it.

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