I get it. It’s cirtusy, it’s called “ruby red”, it’s the picturesque healthy woman’s breakfast. I appreciate the semantics. But don’t think I’ll go easy on you because I didn’t need to add sugar, grapefruit. This species’ leniency in the “tart” arena is not enough to mollify my disapproval. We aren’t bffs…. but we did speak this morning and put each other’s numbers in our phones for a tentative brunch date. So, progress?
Firstly, the whoreson took 10 minutes to eat, and I feel like all I’ve done is slurp a few spoonfuls of pulpy juice. If I were on a desert island I’d need to slice into and anxiously scoop through 5 grapefruits to get the feelings of fullness I could otherwise receive from a serving of Ritz Bits. Secondly, now I am sticky. Thirdly, my right eye stings because every attempt to carefully excavate the next segment of the grapefruit shot a projectile tart stream into my cornea Clearly, eating this is an acquired skill. While the taste isn’t deplorable, the consumption experience is. Mayhaps I’ll just juice you at night and drink your entrails in the mornings from a safe and easy thermos. …Then we can end our tango.
In conclusion, grapefruit… You looked so delicious when I google-imaged you, but then you wiz’d in my eye.