Today is my anti-orange day.
I have one. Sitting in my bag, playing the role of a succulent citrus of tropical paradiso.
But it is a sham.
There are so many ways an orange can disappoint you.
One can prove too dry.
Too rubbery around the edges.
Flaky and infectious on your skin.
Incessantly pungent and not in the way you hope you would emulate if you were a juicy fruit.
The peel disintegrates on your clothes.
The peel clings too tightly to the supposed treasure.
One proves too big and unwieldy.
Another too small and tangerine-like. Tangerines make a mockery of citrus.
A perfect clementine with a brown spot is misery.
The seeds show up in the least desirable places, the most choicy wedges.
Sometimes in amounts too frequent to withstand.
Each wedge holds a personality unto its own. The first sweeter than one could imagine except ending in a grotesque sour note.
The rest tasting like matted pulp in a tasteless artificial flavor factory.
Yes, oranges. It is nothing but love and hate.
One squish of your goodness can reduce me to instant raptures.
But today, I only have utter disdain.