Life is a pizza. Don’t argue with me, just hear me out.  It’s round, shoved into a square box, and eaten as a triangle. That’s not food, that’s a geometry problem with extra cheese. If you can figure that out, congratulations: you’ve solved the perplexity of existence.

The preparation and delivery of pizza takes time. It is like watching the delivery tracker. “Driver is on the way!” it says. For forty-five minutes. Where is he coming from? Italy? And then the screen has gone blank.

Because life, like pizza, doesn’t make sense. It will lift you up like that first glorious bite… and then knock you flat when that stringy, hot cheese burns the roof of your mouth. (And now you’re talking like you just had dental surgery).

One second you have leftovers for tomorrow, the next second you’re standing in the kitchen at midnight, whispering, “Just one more slice,” while holding an empty box.

Life really is like pizza.

You’ll hold on.
You’ll let go.
You’ll laugh so hard soda comes out of your nose.
You’ll ugly cry in the drive-thru line.

You’ll cry again when you realize the breadsticks you specifically requested have mysteriously vanished.

Life Compared to Pizza (only without extra pepperoni)

We have all destroyed ourselves; like thinking “one more slice” wouldn’t hurt.

We have rescued ourselves; maybe with leftover pizza that tasted like hope and regret in equal measure.

We have lit the match; by taking a chance and ordering wings marked “flaming-hot” and immediately bargaining with God.

We have worn the cape; well maybe a blanket cape or a tattered robe, standing in the kitchen at 2 a.m., cold slice in hand, looking both tragic and triumphant.

We’ve fallen (or tripped over the cat/dog/toddler while sprinting for the doorbell) and have risen (quite possibly because of the words “your order has arrived”, but still).

Nothing is Heavier….

Nothing is heavier than being human. (Except maybe Chicago deep dish. That thing isn’t a pizza, it’s a lasagna that had an identity crisis).

So yeah, life is weird. It’s messy. It’s brutal. It’s beautiful. And sometimes it comes with a side of ranch even though you didn’t order ranch. But it’s yours.

Eat the triangular slice that comes from a round pizza, stored in a square box.

Even cold.

Even sideways.

Especially when it makes no sense.

Because at the end of the day, life isn’t really the pizza.

We are all just the delivery driver; lost, circling the block, desperately trying to find where we belong and praying someone tips in cash.

And that’s a good thing. Maybe the point isn’t to arrive, but to keep circling, taking deep whiffs of pizza aroma, headlights catching the odd miracle: a random porch light, the hush of a city at midnight, a stranger waving from a window, every small kindness that says, “You’re almost there.” Maybe our maps will always be out of date, our GPS forever “recalculating,” but still we search for the right door, box warm against our palms, hope folded inside along with the receipt.

And when, at last, we stand under the flickering glow, offering what we carried through the night, we realize the destination was never the coordinates, but the act of showing up hungry, uncertain, and ready to share whatever we have; crushed napkins, bent corners, a greasy box, laughter echoing down empty streets.

So tip generously. To yourself. To every lost soul trying to figure out pizza and life. And keep the porch light on, just in case someone needs to know there’s a place to land.

Good days add up to a good life. And sometimes those days have some pizza.