Bonnie, listen to me. You cannot just walk up to me at 1:13 in the morning, while the lights are flickering and the security cameras are making that noise that sounds like the building is breathing, look me dead in the face with your vacant dumbass stare, and say, “Freddy, you should marry the pizza,” and then act like you didn’t just detonate something inside my animatronic soul. Because the moment you said that, something snapped. First of all, why is that a sentence you had ready. Why was that thought preloaded. Why did you look so confident. You said it like you’d been rehearsing it. Like you’d been waiting your whole miserable night-shift existence to finally drop that on me. And now I’m standing here, gripping my microphone like it’s the last physical object tethering me to reality, wondering how we got here. I am not married to pizza. I am not dating pizza. I am not “basically in a relationship” with pizza. I work. At. A. Pizzeria. This is like telling the janitor to marry the mop or telling the security guard to settle down with the cameras. Do you hear yourself, Bonnie? Do you hear the words leaving your speaker box? “Yes you should,” you say. “You’re always with it.” Of course I’m always with it. It’s everywhere. It’s on the tables. It’s on the floor. It’s in the vents somehow. I wake up and smell pizza. I go to sleep and smell pizza. That does not mean I want to legally bind myself to it under Fazbear Entertainment law, which I remind you has already been rewritten twelve times because of us. And don’t hit me with “pizza would never leave you.” NONE of us can leave, Bonnie. That is not a selling point. That is a threat. What am I supposed to do, Bonnie. Propose? Get down on one knee in the kitchen? Whisper sweet nothings to a cardboard box that says “HOT & READY” while the power drains and the walls hum? Exchange rings? Pizza already HAS rings. Is that symbolic or is that a warning. And you’re just standing there nodding like this makes sense. Like I didn’t just ask you what happens when someone eats a slice of my “spouse” and you didn’t say, “That’s just part of loving pizza.” That sentence should get you decommissioned. I sing on a stage. I lead birthday songs. I am the face of this establishment. I wear a top hat. I will not stand in front of a crowd of children and explain that my partner is perishable and best served within 30 minutes or it gets weird. I already have enough explaining to do. And honestly? Pizza doesn’t even listen. I talk.
