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(One Small Problem, continued...)

Unable to help yourself, you start to explain, at length, just how wrong Ash is about pineapple on pizza. Partially intoxicated, your ‘explanation’ comes out rather rambling and perhaps a little more strongly than you intended. To your mind, it is an epic rant that goes into great detail about just how terrible pineapple on pizza actually is, and how it reflects poorly on Ash that she is a fan.

To Ash’s credit, she is no shy wallflower and she doesn’t falter or recoil from your words. She does fold her arms and waits to get a word in edgeways and, when that chance arises, she gives every bit as good as she got.

You get both barrels of her views on why you haven’t got a fucking clue about what you’re talking about, and how pineapple on pizza just might be one of the greatest things in the history of humanity. The row escalates and escalates, until you are all but shouting at each other.

“Fuck this,” snarls Ash, rising and heading for the door, “I don’t know what I ever saw in you. This was a mistake.” She pulls out a phone and speed dials a cab company to come and get her. Pissed as she is, Ash does still remember her manners, “Thanks for dinner. I’ll see you later.”

And with that, she is gone — leaving you behind angry and horny. You kill the music and lighting, and fetch the dessert and eat the whole thing yourself. Then, to deal with the raging erection in your underwear, you head to your bedroom and jerk off angrily. As you do so, you imagine spurting all over pineapple on pizza.

Your hate for pineapple on pizza only grows from that day on because, in addition to all the other reasons why it’s the worst, pineapple on pizza also cost you your one and only shot with Ash.

The End