Peaches for me

I sometimes feel like a peach. More specifically, one of those big, round, yellow peaches. The awfully bland, tasteless, juiceless ones, devoid of any hint of either sweetness or tanginess.

Who likes those peaches? Who craves them? Eating them is a dreary experience. They provide no joy, no pleasure, only dull disappointment. Who would miss them, were they to disappear? And why are they so big? Given their dullness, their exaggerated, grapefruit-like size seems absurd, insulting — a way to needlessly prolong a dismal experience, bite after sad bite. And why buy them? There is plenty of good fruit available, after all. There are good peaches. Like those peaches in Call Me By Your Name.

That’s the kind of peach I’d want to be. A peach that’s yearned for and then bitten into with eager enthusiasm. A peach that’s lush and rich, that excites the senses, that tastes of life, of summer, of love. The MDMA of peaches. A peach you eat with joy and which leaves an imprint so memorable it can awaken that same joy through its mere evocation — a peach to be fondly remembered, not a bland yellow ball you force yourself to go through with growing disgust and then try to forget immediately afterwards.

A peach you can even fuck! a peach you want to fuck. Who would want to fuck a shitty yellow-bland-ball peach? I mean, they’re not even juicy! Worthless, unfuckable, disappointing.
Peaches.

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