Dearest Boot Pizza,

You and I have been an item for quite some time now, but it’s time for me to move on.

This isn’t one of those “It’s not you, it’s me,” breakups, because this is entirely your fault. I won’t get cheesy here and ease the blow with pizza puns — No … this break up won’t be topped. Alright, I lied about no puns.

Where were you this summer? You abandoned me and I had to satisfy my drunk craving with crepes. Do you have any idea how hard it is to finish an entire freaking crepe without looking like a complete doofus?

I thought, sure, I can wait. But I heard rumors that you’ve taken some time away to “figure things out.”

Your sign changed and read “Boot Pizza.” I thought you only let ME call you Boot Pizza and to those “other students,” it was “The Dough Bowl.”

It was late and I had too many Boot Happy Hour specials and I craved your warm mouthfeel. I had been eagerly awaiting this moment. They told me you changed for the better. I trusted you.

That deceiving slice finally came. I figured I deserved pepperoni after what you put me through this summer.

For a second all was right with the world — you and I were going to get back together and I’d stay with you until graduation.

But then I took a bite.

I wailed. You’d never hurt me before, not like this. The sauce burnt my lip. How is that even possible? You would never try to hurt my mouth.

I blew on it, assuming it was a mistake, that everyone makes mistakes.”It’s normal for pizza to be hot,” I told myself.

It cooled and I took another bite.

It was all wrong. Maybe my burnt taste buds had played tricks on me but maybe they were right. Maybe now your sauce tastes like ketchup and your crust like cardboard, but I couldn’t give up on you.

I figured everyone has a bad night. Everyone deserves a second chance.

So I went back to you one more time, sober. Maybe we were meant to get more serious? Maybe you could be more than a drunken hookup.

I went back and I didn’t hate you. This time the sauce was decent, and the cheese didn’t slip away. But the crust still made me cringe.

It just didn’t feel right to eat you anymore. I have problems and needs, Booty. I love good pizza and that’s my problem. But if I can’t go to you drunk, when I crave you the most, how can we maintain my longest-lasting relationship at Tulane?

Goodbye, Boot Pizza.