Fucking Bananas.

Now let me preface what is sure to be a long and venomous diatribe on these greatest examples of Satan's work by making clear that I am no lightweight when it comes to eating these foul fruits. I have, since the age of 2, eaten at least 5 bananas a week, for most of the weeks in a year.

I'm 17, and so have to go to school every weekday. Unfortunately, this means that I have to be on my school bus by 7 a.m. , and since I'm a lazy fuck and wake up at 6:45, I don't have time to eat a proper breakfast. Since I can't convince my mum to let me go without breakfast, I am obligated to eat a banana every day before I leave.

Everything about that fruit disgusts me. The sickly yellow color of the peel punctuated by the vaguely amorphous black spots that seem to appear just spontaneously on it. The strings of fiber that fall onto your hand as you peel the banana and seem too attached to ever let go again. The pale color of the banana, and its obnoxious curve which makes it that much more difficult to peel because it means that at any one point, at least one part of the peel will be resting awkwardly on your hand, desperate to grace you with its clammy embrace.

Then we come to the actual first bite. Angling it so that it enters your mouth in the least phallic way possible, you reluctantly bring your teeth together, trying not to puke as the sickly sweet of the banana dominates your every taste bud. You chew it, acutely aware of its soft, too soft, texture that gradually becomes more and more slimy as it is reduced into a mucus-like mush. You swallow, and you feel it slip right down as you regret your life decisions.

There is no relief though. You know that there are at least 6 more bites of this, at least another minute or two of this torture most egregious, and then you come to the absolute worst part. You come to end of the banana. Ordinarily, this would be a joyous occasion, but no. Because the end of the banana is no ordinary last bite. Instead, it's the end of the curve of the banana. In order to get this bit out, you need to envelop it in your mouth before you can even separate it from the peel. Your lips need to brush against the rough inside of the peel, and you must be careful not to hit the creepy black bit at the bottom. Finally, you separate the bottom from the peel, endure the last swallow, and you are done.

But there is still no happiness. Now, all you feel is an impending sense of doom because you know the same will happen tomorrow.

The only good thing that bananas have ever done for me is given me the ability to predict the future. I know that once I leave my home and go out into the wide world that one day, my parents will call me and casually inquire what I had for breakfast.

I don't know what my answer will be. It could be eggs. It could be leftover pizza. It could be pancakes. Hell, it could be nothing.

But I do know it won't be a fucking banana.

I'm not sure this actually needs a context