On the last night of Passover

There’s something to be said for the sour pleasure of denial, the mouthful of eager saliva swallowed in place of the exquisite meal. The banquet lying untouched before your aching desire. There’s something to be said for it, true, for that mastery over yourself. For the even voice and steady hand in the depths of the most violent rage. There’s something better in abandon. To drink in all the booze and lust and cruelty your vessel can hold, in filling yourself to the brim and overflowing your soul with everything and the last thing you crave.

I’m going to order a pizza.