I. Condemnation

Steal back to the larder in the dead of night
as the house of Normal People slumbers.

For the crimes of oversleeping until nine
and of begging for soup to perpetuate your disease,
you have been
sentenced
to a night of consumption.

This is a night of complex carbohydrates and animal fats;
soon your oversatiation will be brought about by the following.

Cold pizza, empty and emotionless, dipped in a
Full-fat Ranch dip that is salivatingly coarse;
Cold cheesey breadsticks, similar to the above;
Sour cream and onion potato chips, with a
Meek crunch that less than satisfies;
Processed peanut butter on a spoon of questionable cleanliness;
Chocolate animal crackers, dry and so very unlike chocolate;
Stale Saltines dipped in cold tomato soup;
Wheat Thins so salty your eyes will cross;
Shredded cheese straight from the bag,
Handfuls and handfuls of the stuff, shoveled down at breakneck pace;
Carrot chips, crunchy but bland, dipped in the full-fat Ranch;
Whole wheat bread, to finish the dip off with a flick and a flair;
And for dessert, the bag of semisweet chocolate chips
That you should be saving to make a treat for your mother
When the light comes back.

But for now, few things are adequately comparable to
The complete sensory experience that is
Food and the eating thereof.

II. Thinking About What You've Done

There are tastes, of course. Everyone knows that.

Before that, there are sights:
A bright light in the dark, sending a painful shock to the optic cavity,
Condensed steam on the cellophane,
Cold grease spots on the bottom of the pizza box,
Healthier things like grapes staring up at you in disappointment.

Next, there are feelings:
The combination roughness and smoothness of the pizza box,
The heaviness of the crisper drawer,
The reluctance with which the pantry door opens,
The cold within the refrigerator,
The new solidity to which you are most decidedly not accustomed.

Back in your room, there are sounds:
A package crinkling as you pry it open
With blue-ended fingers that fumble in the dark,
Clothespins acting as the only barricade between you and certain death
Creaking open after having been closed all goddamned day,
Zzzhhnnnnnk! of the patent-pending resealable package.

Then come the tastes:
You are not even hungry.
Your mouth opens anyway, a dank cave of marvel and disgust,
Of discovery and decay,
And you accept your sentence with as much grace as
A shot pelican.