my love for you...

Some of these are new. Some are not. All of them are words. I like to eat words.

These are about how my love is like a various item of food. I hope you enjoy it.

And, if not, then I suppose you've failed. Not me, you.

My love for you is like a frozen carrot: bold, vivid, unbreakable, and full of vitamin A.

My love for you is like an apple: subtle, shiny, tender, and quick to become discolored if exposed to oxygen for too long.

My love for you is like a pumpkin: big, cumbersome, warm, hearty, and a favorite object of bat-wielding drunk teenagers.

My love for you is like a peanut: tough to crack, efficient, versatile, and occasionally highly toxic to the wrong people.

My love for you is like a banana: mushy, fragrant, easily digestible, and on the brink of extinction.

My love for you is like a papaya: exotic, robust, seedy, thin-skinned, and incapable of sitting on a shelf more than a few days.

My love for you is like high fructose corn syrup: mildly sweet, borderline addictive, and in every damned thing everywhere.

My love for you is like canned beets: easy to slice, little nutritional value, and stains everything in your house.

My love for you is like a potato: nondescript but widely varied, turns purple from iodine, and will break windows if thrown hard enough.

My love for you is like a milkshake: cold and stodgy at first, but yields with warmth, and is drunk to the full by Daniel Day Lewis.

My love for you is like a piece of bread: not the heel - no, not that one either - yeah, that one, sort of in the middle of the loaf.

My love for you is like a thin-crust pizza: smothered in greasy things under the illusion that because part of it is thin that it isn’t quite so deleterious.

My love for you is like an orange: sweet, sticky, pulpy, an inspiration for two out of five of Neruda’s poetic images, and doubles as the base for a detergent.

My love for you is like a pork chop: surrounded by fluff, robustly textured, and not at all kosher.

My love for you is like hummous: simple, basic, incredibly filling, but gets in the way of your baba ghanouj.

My love for you is like cheese: fuck patriarchy.

My love for you is like milk: nourishing, mixes well with chocolate, leaves a thin film on things, and goes bad after seven to ten days.

My love for you is like canned tuna: watery, compressed and ready to spring into action, and a favorite of feral cats.

My love for you is like a burrito: fill it with damn near everything and get away with it.

My love for you is like fried rice: peppery, tinges of color, and loaded with enough MSG to take out the 51st Manitoban Cavalry.

My love for you is like a cup of pudding: smooth, silky, can be thrown in the pantry and forgotten for weeks on end, and develops an alien skin once exposed to sunlight.

My love for you is like uncooked pasta: filled with dog hair once you spill it all over the floor.

My love for you is like avocado ice cream: trust me, buddy, it will knock you on your ass with how good it is.

My love for you is like four loko: addictive, generically fruit-flavored, and will land 82 partygoers in the ICU after two cans.

My love for you is like a raisin: small, lonely, delicately sweet, but will show up in foods you least expect and make you shriek with terror.

My love for you is like tofu: blanched, bland but takes up any flavoring you give it, soaked in its own juices, and makes a terrible pillow.

My love for you is like a watermelon: filled with boiling rage.

My love for you is like a three-layered cake: excruciating in terms of effort in creating it, the true measure of its wonder comes only when it has been completely devoured.

My love for you is like a glass of water: cool, clear, a staple of life, and easily thrown into the face of a hussy.

My love for you is like caviar: basically pointless, but schmucks place artificially high monetary values on it and fish its producers to extinction.

My love for you is like a cup of coffee: damn good coffee.

My love for you is like a bottle of imitation vanilla: overpriced, smells terrific, and tastes terrifyingly grotesque.

My love for you is like a box of crackers: square, occasionally perforated, salty, but can be covered with any variety of substances.

My love for you is like a glass of Chimay: I really enjoy beer.

My love for you is like a taco salad: someone said “let’s figure out how to combine everything we have left in the fridge and slap some salsa on it and call it ‘Mexican.’”

My love for you is like a sack of flour: ground out by massive stones and veritably useless unless combined with other things, like pestilence, fear, or loathing.

My love for you is like a cup of lentils: earthy, crunchy before cooked, and typically filled with small stones that will break your teeth.

My love for you is like a Gummi worm: amazing elasticity, psychotropic translucence, but created from Gummi Bear slave labor, destroying the surrounding countryside in the maddening hunt for the highly prized worms.

My love for you is like cold beef stew: disgusting.