O dear, sweet Avocado. Who was I before I met your plump lips? Your voluptuous green meat, hidden from my world by your blackened shell. Where once I found you disgusting, revolting without reason, I am forever grateful for the day that my heart let you in, and I was deemed worthy of your sweet ecstasy. How could I have expected that the more rotten your exterior appears, the more luscious, juicy, and bright you are within? How could I have lived so long without your nourishment, and your significant contribution of Vitamin B6 to my diet, bringing my dreams to more vivid life and attempting to soothe my Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder? You bring focus into my life, Avocado, and you bring life into my dreams, and so it would stand to reason that it is you who bring my dreams to life. They call you climacteric, because you ripen off the tree, but I believe it is because you are a climax in and of yourself. A delicious, creamy green climax.
I love you so much that I don’t even care if your name means “testicle” in the Nahuatl Aztec tongue, because, to be honest with you, Avocado, I might even go gay if you asked me to.
Not that, you know, I’m gay or anything. I just really like avocados. The fruits, I mean.
(Although, technically, they’re berries. No, seriously.)