Dear Leftovers,

How do I put this nicely? You disgust me. You irk me to my very core. There is so much wrong with you, where do I begin? You’re a liar, first off. That two-day-old pizza looks fresh and smells like an Italian restaurant, but it could actually be rotten. What’s the deal? What kind of sick game are you playing?

Did you know on Wikipedia you’re defined as “uneaten edible remains”? Remains?! That word makes me sick, like I’m eating scraps of decaying meat I found on the street after an apocalypse. Get it together, leftovers. You’re not fooling me. You may fool others, but not me. I knew you were trouble when you walked in.


Photo by Caitlin Wolper

You’re only worthy of the fridge before you’ve hit 2 hours of life. So, why the hell is the baked ziti from that party 5 hours ago just getting into a Tupperware? You wanted three extra hours of people breathing and spitting over you? You’re into some gross shit, let me tell you. Get out of my sight. Please, find your way to a garbage can.

You know what else? You’re a one-and-done type of guy. I don’t need that in my life. Not now, not ever. After heating you up once, you lose nutritional value, taste and texture. Where the hell did it all go? Food Heaven? Send me there and you can kindly go to Food Hell. Please and thank you.


Photo by Caitlin Wolper

You live in the danger zone, literally; 40°F to 140°F are your boundaries. If you chill there too long, you become a breeding ground for bacteria. They breed faster than rabbits in heat.

You’re vile and no good for me or anyone else. Can’t you see that? Get out of my face and stay far away from my dinner plate.

This is my final farewell. Do you smell that fresh smell of decent, just-out-the-oven pizza? You’ll never be as good as that. Get lost.



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