After my team lost our playoff match when Detroit scored in the last instant of the game yesterday, we rushed our dejected, sweaty, bloody, stinky, muddy bodies to the Milwaukee airport and checked in 30 minutes before our flight departed, several of us still wearing our rugby clothes. I, the smart member of the team, had a Subway sub from earlier in the day to cram in my mouth before the flight. But by the time we landed, all I wanted was a pizza. Nothing in the universe apart from a piece of pizza.
I called my Corey, tore him away from bike racing, and commanded him to collect me at the airport. We set off in search of pizza. In Highland Park, there are 4 pizza places within 18 inches of one another. Do any of them have a heated oven prepared for making pizza on a Sunday evening at 7pm? No. No they do not. What I wouldn't give for one of those pizza joints to be a Ray's. We drove home, defeated yet again.
So I sat at home with my sadness and ate Pasta Roni. A pathetic substitute for cheesy goodness. What a crappy day.