Women Are Like Pineapples. They’re Difficult And Acidic, But Sweet And Savory.


She always liked pineapples. She’d even reach over my pizza piece and grab the pineapple bits on my plate. We’re not together anymore, but I remember how fascinated she was with pineapples.

I preferred oranges. They were much simpler to eat. Peel and pop. You peel the skin, and pop the citrus piece into your mouth. Simple. Pineapples are complex. Plus I don’t understand why a huge nugget-shaped fruit has to have so many eyes. It’s like a peacock, but a fruit, you know?

She told me I wasn’t like the other guys she dated. I was quieter and less opinionated about things. Dealing with women is something that I can’t stand. Sure, I love her. I mean, I loved her then. But after living under a roof with a plump machine of a mother and two complaining sisters, I knew then and there that it was impossible to win an argument over women. I guess the best win I’d ever got is my quiet logic: never being crazy enough to try win an argument. The last argument my parents had ended up in a divorce. I think my dad is somewhere down the countryside living in his trailer with his pet ferret.

Although I was less vocal about my perspective on things, I never quite understood why my girlfriend, my ex-girlfriend I mean, would choose pineapples over oranges. Is it because they’re sweeter? I don’t think so. I tasted pineapple once, by mistake, that was on some barbeque stick with the meat and mallows and all, and I almost threw up my every gut. She said I over-reacted and gave me a look. I had half a mind to puke all over her new shoes but decided to stay calm instead. Why would I overreact? My body clearly rejected the fruit. Hell, it doesn’t even deserve to be called fruit, it’s the devil’s seed.

The roof of my mouth felt like it was on fire. Was it the vomit? Or the pineapple? I can’t really say. All I knew that despite my futile attempt for dinner that night which has obviously decorated the carpet already, I still craved for oranges. I always had one in my backpack. Even though my fat hippo of a mother always shoved lectures down my throat every morning, she was sweet enough to never forget to shoot an orange or two down my backpack before I headed to work. I work at a music store just a couple of blocks away from home. I still haven’t decided yet what job to take. I graduated last year. Physical therapy. So far the only person who got anything out of it was my ex-girlfriend.

Because she had back-pains.

Anyway, I hate pineapples. And I hate my ex-girlfriend. She should marry pineapples and give birth to children with eyes instead of skin on bones. Okay I take that back, that’s just downright cruel. But seriously, I don’t get it. I’ve been single for almost a year now. And I like it that way. I think women are like pineapples: difficult to deal with and got eyes in every damn place.