Adversity.
I’ve always felt outfoxed by the kiwi.
Dressed up in a fuzzy suit resembling dehydrated excreta, the kiwi’s muddy membrane requires a delicate procedure of removal. Knife in hand, I unsheathe the clever sod from his shell with all the dexterity of a sheep on acid, and—roughly speaking—around 26% of the awareness.
Awakening from a harrowing fantasy of undressed kiwis, I find the kitchen table spattered with puddles of wee-coloured kiwi plasma interspersed with black speckles and bits of old newspaper extolling Howards End. The bulk of Kiwi remains selotaped to the skin, and in my hands I find a small green ball of flesh, approximately as wide as a 10p piece. “Asparagus isn‘t this difficult,” I stammer, tears dripping into the toxic kiwi puddles below. “And it’s still green.”
Electing not to be defeated by something harvested in Italy, I cracked open the refrigerator today and ate two kiwis whole—skin and all. I am now bio-boosted with inspired amounts of vitamin K, B6, magnesium, and various artificial fertilisers.
About me
I'm Jack. Sometimes my hair is untidy, riddled with goblins and smurfs. When I scream into the Grand Canyon, it inspires pained howling in wild dogs and wily coyotes, and compels all leaf-eating mammals to scuttle for higher ground in wait of the great flood. I think Goku is an existential paragon. My life's trajectory is adjusted towards becoming a hermit and dying alone somewhere on top of a golden mountain at sunset. Which is a jolly good innings, all told.
