I’m going to tell you a riveting, gripping tale about fruit pizza. Yes, THAT fruit pizza. It looks pretty damn good doesn’t it? Except for maybe that one strawberry near the top of the photo. You see it. The one with the older brother who wouldn’t stop yelling, “Why are you hitting yourself,” smacking its younger berry’s arm up into its own seedy face until it cried out for mom with a blackening eye. Older strawberries are notorious bullies. We all know an older strawberry.
Damnit, there I go getting derailed from this epic adventure I need to tell you about. Okay, enough with the sidebars. Are you ready for this harrowing account of redemption? This classical parable of friendship? This legendary anecdote of… FRUIT PIZZA? Get yourself mentally prepared. Loosen up those reading pupils. Put some droplets in your mind’s eye. This is a real doozy you guys, a real emotional seesaw. This is the type of culinary journey Homer would have waxed Greek about. This is about two blueberries south of a Nobel. This story is downright biblical.
Alright, I’m going to need to you to picture this. Ready? Of course you are. You were born ready. This is your time to shine. Okay, close your eyes. And… oh shit.
Wait! Open your eyes back up! You won’t be able to read this if you keep your eyes closed! Crap, oh crap. Are you using a text to speech app? Yes? No? Hello? Go back. Shit, no don’t say that out loud! Stay on this page! Don’t leave me! The rest of you, please open your eyes. Please? Are they open yet? What if you never open your eyes again, anxiously anticipating a story about fruit pizza? I DON’T THINK I CAN LIVE WITH THAT. You guys? IS ANYONE THERE? Did I blind the whole world? AM I ALL ALONE?
Well… shit. I really screwed this blog post up. And it really was an incredible story about fruit pizza. 😦