The hairball pizza was oddly delicious, with a musky, peaty aroma I couldn't quite place.
I will, it turns out, eat pizza that's in pretty much any state. (Any state but Washington. Rimshot.) One time I was rear-ended very hard while at a stoplight and the Massey's Pizza (important because they cut long, thin, rectangular slices) accordioned. It was a solid fused plate of pizza that I cut into cubes and ate. And then there was the homemade pizza last year when my heating element split in two, caught fire, and imbued the pie with acrid, probably carcinogenic smoke. Chomp, chomp. Yum.
One time I had a craving and Maddie and I drove out to Eagle's Pizza, about a 45 minute drive from home. When we returned, she somehow dropped the box. It flew open, and pieces of pizza skidded across the apartment's parking lot. You know what's coming. She knew it, too. She went to the other room while I brushed off the gravel and bits of broken glass and ate the pizza anyway.
And it was still a thousand-fold better than anything I've had in Seattle.