Scott and SadieThe Pizza Roll—the snack of champions, the cuisine of college kids, latchkey children, and drunk adults everywhere. These tiny, lava-filled pockets of chaos have ruined more mouths than hot coffee and bad Tinder dates combined. And why? Because waiting two minutes for them to cool was simply not an option.
Look, we all knew the risk. The second that microwave beeped or the oven timer dinged, we were on it—grabbing those little bastards like they were nuggets of holy salvation. Did we pause to test the temperature? Let them rest like rational human beings? No. We bit straight in like reckless goblins, fully prepared to gamble with oral third-degree burns.
And oh, the pain. That first bite would feel innocent enough—just a slight warmth—and then BAM, molten cheese-lava explodes across your tongue like Mount Vesuvius. There is no warning, no mercy, just searing agony and the immediate regret of every decision you’ve ever made. Your tongue? Gone. Taste buds? Evacuated. The roof of your mouth? A peeling war zone for the next three days.
But were we deterred? Of course not. Because Pizza Rolls are like snack heroin. Even as your mouth is actively blistering, you’re still shoveling them in, blowing on the next one like that’s going to make any goddamn difference. “Maybe this one’s cooler,” you lie to yourself, as you repeat the cycle of pain and shame.
And let’s not forget the temperature betrayal—Pizza Rolls are never evenly cooked. The outside is somehow lukewarm cardboard, but the inside? Satan’s fondue. You could crack one open and it would still launch molten cheese onto your thumb like a napalm grenade.
The worst part? We knew this. Every single time. It’s not like we were caught off guard. It wasn’t our first Pizza Roll rodeo. But there’s something primal, something deeply broken in us that refuses to wait the full two minutes. Because “cooling time” is for cowards, and we are not weak. We are dumb. But we are committed.
So yes, we remember the pain. We remember the blistered mouths and the self-loathing. But we also remember the glorious, cheesy, sauce-filled bliss that made it all worth it. Long live the Pizza Roll—and long live our collective inability to just fcking wait.*
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