I’m breaking up with you. I just can’t take the abuse anymore. You remember our morning tryst a few weeks ago? All day I was miserable, focused on my pain, like someone with enormous hands was reaching inside my torso and forciby twisting my guts. But I didn’t blame you, Bananas. I blamed Pizza, with whom I’d had a short fling the evening prior. Everyone said you were so good for me, Bananas, that you made me a better person by enriching my life. How could I blame you?
Well, this morning, I’m sure you remember that we did our thing again, and since we were exclusive, I have no one else to blame for the pain I currently feel. The pain that makes me clutch my stomach and pray for death. How could you do this to me? I loved you!
Fuck you, Bananas. We are breaking up forever. Your yellow skin and rich potassium content hold no allure for me. I will also ignore your contributions to one of the finest sandwiches ever created. Don’t call me anymore. Especially not on the fucking Bananaphone.