(or, How I Learned to Stop Loving and Hate Potassium)
Fruit, darling, we need to talk. I like you. Really, I do. I know things have been tough this past year, and I’ve not seen you in literally eight months by this point, but I think you’re being a bit unfair now. I’m trying to make things better, okay? I’m trying to see you more often, and just the other day I threw out all my other food and just had you, like the old days when my one vegetarian relative would come to visit and we’d grow close that day, before tumbling apart again.
But you’re not even making that effort any more. I see you there, in your so-called airtight bag, bananas bruising and softening, oranges growing thicker and tougher to peel off into segments, so I have to eat them by sinking my teeth into their spherical surfaces, like those sadists who refuse to eat a Hubba Bubba correctly.
And I know there’s not too much you can do about this, because you break down naturally just as I can ignore you sometimes, equally naturally, but you could at least make an effort. Do you know how hard it is for one person, who may legitimately be suffering from a potassium and vitamin D deficiency (again) to get through a dozen bananas in three days? How torturous it is on my rotted taste buds and churning intestines to throw sharp, zesty flavours into these decaying systems, and not immediately projectile-vomit all over the nearest wall / book / flatmate?
I know I’ve been in the wrong in the past, but I’m trying to make it right. You’re not even dignifying me with an attempt.