Drunk Me Ordered Forty Pizzas to My Own Address

I want to be clear that I do not usually drink like this, and I have not since. But one bad night, after one bad breakup, I made a series of decisions with my phone that I have no memory of at all.

I woke up around nine the next morning to knocking. I opened the door to a delivery driver holding a stack of pizza boxes taller than the doorframe. He said, cheerfully, "First eight of forty." I said, "Forty what." He said, "Pizzas." I said a word I will not repeat.

Apparently drunk me had gotten it into his head that he was hosting a party. A big one. He had opened the app and ordered forty pizzas, with careful and varied toppings, to be delivered to my own address, and had prepaid the entire thing including a generous tip, which is the only genuinely thoughtful thing drunk me has ever done.

There was no party. There was just me, alone, in a small apartment, now the owner of forty pizzas. The driver made four trips. My kitchen counters disappeared under boxes. My living room smelled like a stadium.

I did the only reasonable thing. I posted in the building group chat that there was free pizza in the lobby, and for one glorious hour I was the most popular person in the building. Neighbours I had never met came down in pajamas. Someone brought napkins. A small, spontaneous, sad-yet-wonderful pizza party formed around my breakup that I did not attend but did, technically, host.

I have a lock on the food apps now that requires a password I do not remember when drinking. My neighbours still say hi. Two of them are now good friends. Worth every slice.