Dear Papa John,
Firstly, and most importantly, I have to admit that I love your pizzas. They are tastier, cheesier, crispier and nommier than any other pizza chain's pizzas. Your sides and starters are scrummy. Even your staff seem to give a damn when you place an order. In short, it's like having my mum cook a pizza from scratch. Without the guilt trip I'd normally get while sitting on my bum watching TV until it arrives on my lap.
I especially appreciate the offers you post on Facebook and, when we haven't seen each other in a while, the letters your write to me. Oh your letters...
Sadly, I'm a bit disappointed in your last letter. I thought we had something special, but it seems that you're messing me around and playing with my head (and heart.... and stomach). You sent a love token for a little something special to my home, but you put the wrong store in the letter. They didn't want to know me; they said we were too far apart. I thought we could make long-distance work, we said we'd try. But no, they didn't want to know. She told me that there was somebody else who was interested in me, a little closer, but I called her at 22:30 and she said it was too late. Maybe she doesn't like nights out, maybe she was washing her hair, or maybe she found somebody new.
I'm sorry about that fling with Domin(o)ique, and all the other cheap ones on the streets. I had a few drinks, I made a few mistakes, but I was willing to make it work. Please tell me it's not too late. You said you wanted to win me back, and I want this to work too.
I miss the way you knock on my door and I know it's you. You know, I'd always smile. I miss your firm bottom and how you let me feel it all the way through movies. How we could sit there for hours doing what I wanted to do, and you'd still be happy when I picked you up again. Or how you'd still be waiting for me in the morning. I want you back in my life, but you're not making it easy for me.
Please, please, think about this.
Firstly, and most importantly, I have to admit that I love your pizzas. They are tastier, cheesier, crispier and nommier than any other pizza chain's pizzas. Your sides and starters are scrummy. Even your staff seem to give a damn when you place an order. In short, it's like having my mum cook a pizza from scratch. Without the guilt trip I'd normally get while sitting on my bum watching TV until it arrives on my lap.
I especially appreciate the offers you post on Facebook and, when we haven't seen each other in a while, the letters your write to me. Oh your letters...
Sadly, I'm a bit disappointed in your last letter. I thought we had something special, but it seems that you're messing me around and playing with my head (and heart.... and stomach). You sent a love token for a little something special to my home, but you put the wrong store in the letter. They didn't want to know me; they said we were too far apart. I thought we could make long-distance work, we said we'd try. But no, they didn't want to know. She told me that there was somebody else who was interested in me, a little closer, but I called her at 22:30 and she said it was too late. Maybe she doesn't like nights out, maybe she was washing her hair, or maybe she found somebody new.
I'm sorry about that fling with Domin(o)ique, and all the other cheap ones on the streets. I had a few drinks, I made a few mistakes, but I was willing to make it work. Please tell me it's not too late. You said you wanted to win me back, and I want this to work too.
I miss the way you knock on my door and I know it's you. You know, I'd always smile. I miss your firm bottom and how you let me feel it all the way through movies. How we could sit there for hours doing what I wanted to do, and you'd still be happy when I picked you up again. Or how you'd still be waiting for me in the morning. I want you back in my life, but you're not making it easy for me.
Please, please, think about this.
