Step Away from the Pink Box

The pink box appears on my kitchen counter, out of nowhere.  "Hey," it says.  "How you doin'?"  "I'm okay," I say.  "Hungry?" the box asks.  "Not really, I just had some toast."  "Toast?  How boring is that?"  "I like toast."  "Sure you do."  "I do."  "Come on," it purrs, "open me."
"I shouldn't."  "Live a little.  I dare ya.  One bite.  How much damage can it do?"  "Plenty," I say.  "Oh please," says the box.  "Get over yourself."  I feel myself getting sucked into its vortex.  My pulse quickens.  I reach in.  I take a bite of something glazed.  I take one more.  I cut off a corner.  Another gulp and the whole thing's gone. I eye the sprinkles, the jelly D.  I'm in big trouble.  I close the lid.  I step away.  I'm back.  "You know what you are?" I ask, licking chocolate off my fingers.  "Evil," I say, slicing an eclair in half.  "Capital E - V - I - L." "You sure can spell good," says the box. "Want a French cruller? They're super delish." "No thanks, I'm done."  "Keep telling yourself that," says the pink demon.  "You're just gettin' started."