As an up-and-coming comic and actor, sometimes I have to supplement my gigs by leaving the cozy comfort of my home office to do in-house freelance writing at a large company. Worse yet, when I can't find freelance writing work, sometimes I have to temp.

Both jobs require me to actually change out of my pajamas and be around people, but at least most writing gigs allow me to show up in jeans and my Juniors brand tops from Macy's, whereas temp jobs often come with the dreaded "business casual" dress code. The only real reward to these latter corporate environs is the free food—and even that comes at a price.

More so than the stuffy wardrobe requirements of most temp jobs, what really stresses me out about working in new offices is the social interaction—especially around food. At most of my office gigs, I've successfully steered clear of actually getting to know my co-workers. I'm sure they're all wonderful people, but knowing that my time here is limited, I'd prefer not to get too attached to Larry in IT or too personal with Barbara in accounting.

That being said, it's no wonder that people like me dread the forced fun of the office "party." Two years ago, I was temping at an Internet Company and had only been working there about a week when a lunchtime pizza party was announced, as a thank-you to all the employees who boosted sales that quarter. (Employees. Not me—the seat warmer who spent her days begrudgingly answering phones and painting her nails with Wite-Out.)

First of all, don't call these things a party. They usually consist of a conference room with soda, pizza, and about 50 employees making awkward banter. If you're going to call these things a party, I want to see booze, a DJ, and maybe even a sketchy dude  selling pills by the bathroom, just for the ambiance. What's that? A cage for go-go dancing? Well, it wasn't listed as a skill set on my resume, but hell yeah I'll boogie down in some hot pants. After all we (I mean you) boosted sales 72% this quarter!

But there wasn't a chance in hell of real fun transpiring. So, in order to avoid the akwardness that is office socializing, I wanted to get in there, get my pizza, and get back out again as quickly as humanly possible. I did not want to talk to anyone about the slow speed of the elevators or the recent drop in office temperature. I didn't want to answer any questions about my hobbies, my career goals, my weekend, or me in general. I just wanted to get some free pizza, and there was a never-ending, school-cafeteria-like line between me and the goods.

Truth be told, I didn't even really want any pizza. I love pizza. I really, really, really love pizza. (I'm Italian, goddammit!) However due to the increase in my waistline and the decrease in my ability to digest lactose, I've cut back dramatically on my pizza intake. But, I felt like I had to have free pizza. I'm a temp. I clearly don't have stable income, so how dare I pass up a meal? It was the same way I couldn't say no to the free breakfast pastries every Friday morning. The same way I couldn't say no to the seemingly weekly birthday cake. The same way I couldn't say no to mayo-filled, stale sandwiches left over from yesterday's board meeting. It was all free.

Now, you may be wondering why all the real, steadily paid employees can't say a simple "no, thank you" to free food, especially if it's as bad for you as it sounds. Well, that's like saying no to a watermelon wine cooler at a 10th grade party in Tyler Sullivan's parents' basement. You know you'll be quietly ostracized, and nobody wants to be the black sheep.

So, even though I was only at this job for one, two, maybe 14 days, I went to the pizza party. After just five minutes in line, however, I drifted into the comic fantasyland in my head that I often visit throughout the workday. I began to imagine what all these strangers would do if I gluttonously piled 10 slices on my plate. There was already a stead buzz growing about whether or not there would be enough pizza to feed the entire staff. As murmurs of, "They only got 25 pizzas?" filled in the room, so did my aspirations of just grabbing four boxes of pizza and taking them to my desk. I wasn't even that hungry, and I could usually only really eat two slices in one sitting. But to see the looks of horror on my officemates' faces as this quiet, unknown, extremely adorable temp shoveled slice upon slice on her flimsy plate while sucking the grease off her paws and splattering cheese on her clearly more casual than corporate outfit would have been absolutely delightful.

What would they have done? This thought ignited the fantasy of a post-pizza-hoarding scenario. The office manger would tackle me to ground tugging the slices from my hands as I screamed, "But your email said free pizza! Give me back my pepperoni, you harlot!"

Other staffers would jump in, some to save the office manager as I went to kick her arm, which had a vice-like grip on my pepper and onion pie, while others simply dove in to save that perfectly good slice of mushroom from falling to the floor. Finally the GM would come in and shout, "What the hell is going here!?" as everyone pointed to me and the mangled mush of devastated pizza boxes soaked in soda pop. (The soda spilled when Kim in HR stood on her cubicle and tried to dropkick the parmesan cheese out from my under my arm. She missed and fell on top of about 10 cases of complimentary Coke and Diet Coke. Did I forget to mention the free soda?) As he'd ask me to get my things and instructed me to leave the office, I'd wipe the tomato sauce from my mouth (now mixed with blood from my busted nose) and splash it on the floor saying, "Yes, sir."

Then, just as I was about to exit the office, I'd dash back in, grab the last remaining pizza from the table, and run home.

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