to whom it may concern

dear banana that is too ripe,

you are gross and i hate your guts. you are entirely too sweet in a banana-sort of way, and every time i take a bite of your mushy, bruised insides i throw up in my mouth, just a little.

were i a better woman, i would make bread outta you.

but i’m not. i’m hungry and trapped in my cube-like, fluorescently-lit prison.

so nasty fruit, you will have to do for now. however, know that you are zapping me of my will to live. wake up in the morning with that kind of guilt. i think my tastebuds are permanently damaged.

love,
me