My Girlfriend's Pizza

I'm going to eat my girlfriend's pizza.

In my bed, she sleeps, safe and sound from the world. She is peaceful and serene. All wrapped up in dirty sheets.

And while she slumbers, I will sneak ever so loudly downstairs, where the pizza she purchased with her own money waits patiently for me. Waiting to be put in my belly, to be ravenously consumed and forgotten in minutes.

I will not move the box. Oh, no. It will remain in the fridge. My girlfriend will have to remove the box, feel its weight, before any suspicion is aroused. Then, hungry and confused, she will open the pizza box to find it empty. Empty! Save for the disgusting cheesy remnants of what remains, a legacy to a most delicious meal.

And then, as this shock hits her, as she reels with anger and depression, I will appear in the doorway, cloaked in the same dirty sheets she slept in. I will appear, and I will point, and I will laugh! I will laugh at her. HA! HA HA HA! HA HA HA HA HA HA! YOU FOOL! YOU THOUGHT YOU'D EAT THAT PIZZA, BUT I ATE IT INSTEAD! ME! KEN! HA HA HA! SUCH A FOOL YOU ARE! WHAT A FOOL! FOOOOOOOOL!

I'm not sure what my day will consist of after that. I haven't thought ahead. But already, I can feel the wheels turning.