I brought for my lunch today four slices of pizza. I like four, it is a number of togetherness, unlike three, which always leaves an odd man out.
Can you understand that sort of pain? One. Man. Out.
So I went to cook my pizza and not to my surprise, a slice was missing, leaving me with three. What would have surprised me is if that wouldn’t have happened. Then I would have been content. I feel sad now.
Sad for the missing slice of pie that had to go on it alone. Sad for the poor soul who will find my retribution swift and poised to strike like a snake sucking the life from a helpless sleeping baby, slowly and over the course of two or three weeks, depending upon what else he’s got going on in his life.
I left this note on the fridge:
To Whomever Stole My Pizza;
This is the second time this has happened. I am sorry, but perhaps you were not aware, I am a pagan. And one of the benefits of being as pagan as I am is that you get to use black wicca on your enemies. I did not make you my enemy, you were born that way.
Use caution in your further proceedings. I suppose time and my goddess, Magpie, will reveal the nature of your indescretion.
Truly I am,
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