Oh my god this party has a snack table. Look at the size of it! I can’t remember who I came with or why I’m here or what I’m not supposed to bring up, just that I need to be on top of that thing right now.

There are jalapeño poppers and genoa slices and honeydew wedges and chicken skewers and I swear I will kill everyone at this party to be alone with it. I want to build a life with that snack table, caress it and make a snow angel in its offerings.

Must calm down. Perhaps committing a blood bath is not the best way to get something to eat. I need to move gradually in concentric circles like a shuttle approaching a planet. If I head directly for the snack table my purposes will be overt and I could bounce off the atmosphere and hurtle into the great void of space. People can’t discover that my entire reason for staying here is eating everything repeatedly and without pause.

Ted’s standing somewhat near the snack table so I’ll talk to him first. He’s saying something about his wife’s charity or her leg being broken but all I can see is the reflection of the jalapeno poppers in his glasses. What beautiful eyes Ted has. I think I’ve put enough time into this conversation, and can now make the casual half-turn and pretend to discover the snack table for the first time.

I said something like “Quite a spread” and grabbed a handful of sourdough crackers and cheddar cubes and prosciutto slices and plopped them onto a small plate, and then quickly turned back to him as if the snack table was inconsequential and he was in reality the focus of the moment. He agreed it was a nice spread. It’s good to bond with people.

Now I need to find someone to talk to that didn’t see me just eat from the snack table, and repeat the process until I’ve exhausted the people area around the food. I’ll use Bill to get some macaroons and Heather to grab lamb sliders with tzatziki and Cameron some potato wedges and yogurt-covered raisins but no mozzarella sticks unfortunately because they appear to be out. If someone were perched above they might notice this delicate snack table dance but this awful house is a single floor bungalow so my methods should remain undetected.

Did Chad just give me a quizzical look? It looked quizzical, not suspicious necessarily. It didn’t help that a slice of prosciutto was dangling from my mouth. Must be aware of Chad going forward, he may become a problem. For now I think it’s best to retreat to the corner of the room and take a break from the conversational snacking thing.

Sarah came over to talk to me and looks good and all but I find myself glancing over her shoulder at the snack table, waiting for a different group of people to settle next to it so I can make my way back. I think she just handed me her phone number. I know it wasn’t a cracker. I wish it were a cracker.

What would really help is some sort of chart to clock who’s seen me head to the snack table and how many times, accounting for sight lines, walking patterns of the guests, any new arrivals, and which foods are nearly gone and should be left alone so blame is not assigned to me for their sudden absence. Man all that chart stuff made me hungry. I wish the snack table had a lower hanging tablecloth so I could sit beneath it and surreptitiously grab snacks in an amusing sitcom-like situation.

Chad just gave me a suspicious look again. Oh shit he’s coming over. “Really enjoying that snack table, huh? Maybe you should have packed a lunch.”

He’s going to blow my cover and tell everyone at the party and I’ll never again be able to come to this place to eat taco bites and mini cupcakes and seven layer dip. Telling him I need to talk to him in the backyard about something to buy myself time.

Oh god, what have I done? Can’t believe I just hit Chad over the head with a chicken drumstick bone that I didn’t realize I was carrying the whole time. Pretty sure he’s unconscious, he didn’t seem to move when I dragged his motionless body into the bushes. Perhaps it’s time to go, but not before I grab some coconut shrimp and chocolate truffles and chicken wings and goat cheese pinwheels. And my coat.

This wouldn’t have happened if I had a mozzarella stick because they’re softer.