When I was 17, I didn't know anything about love except that I didn't have much of it.
"I think I'm vegetables," I declared to my best friend. "You might eat me because you think you should, or because I'm good for you, or because I'm the only thing around and you'll starve if you won't. But if a sugary, decadent cupcake flounces by, you are going to run away with the cupcake."
"You're not vegetables, Burt," she assured me, "You're like...you're like a big, juicy pineapple."
I considered this.
The circumstances of this next part of the story were a little bizarre, but you will just have to take my word that it happened exactly as I'm about to tell it. Somehow, my crush at the time came into possession of a whole, ripe, meaty pineapple. Seriously. And I had a front row seat to watch in awe and mild horror as he tore face-first into that fruit like a barbarian king. Sweet, sticky pineapple juice dripped from his face, fingers, shirt, and onto the floor, and he only came up once for air and to exclaim his undying love for pineapple. It was a little grotesque. I felt like I was seeing something I shouldn't see, like a lion shredding a wrecked zebra carcass, fresh blood steaming from its muzzle.
I considered this.
Some weeks later, I asked out said crush on a date. He said he would consider it.
Then he said no.
I guess he had had enough pineapple...
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