My dad has been stoping by the side of the road every weekend to buy three or four cantaloupes and two watermelons from the local “farmers markets” (people selling fruit in the trunk of their cars). Then he comes home, cuts them all up, and promptly stuffs the mutilated pieces into the refrigerator like some sort of produce section Jeffery Dahmer.
It was nice at first, but now, every time I open the fridge it smells like a continental breakfast sampler from The Holiday Inn…which I don’t enjoy at all because it reminds me of the smell of maple syrup, which makes my entire body feel sticky just by the power of association.
And yes. Yes, I am that neurotic.
Damn. I feel like such a bastard complaining about cantaloupe. It’s such a first world problem:
“Omigod! Why does there always have to be fresh fruit gracing me with a pleasant aroma every time I open my giant food dispenser/preservation unit?!!!! Nourishing myself can be such a drag sometimes….”
I’m also not entirely happy with my casual reference to Jeffery Dahmer. It was a a little forced, a little dark…But geez. If Ke$ha can do it, why can’t I?