And by "public," I mean immediately outside my front door.
It's the classic hungover conundrum. You desperately need the kind of greasy, hot food that will make it all stop hurting so much. And yet the thought of remaining vertical long enough to stand at the door while the pizza delivery guy counts out your change is physically impossible. Never mind the devastatingly bright outside light that would sear your corneas, the squeaky door hinge that would violently attack you eardrums, or the throbbing of your head as you wildly shook it by quietly saying the words "Thank you."