I DON’T CARE WHY I LOVE BANANAS
I have always loved bananas. As far back as I can remember, when I was minus a million years old, I loved bananas. I can eat eight to twelve daily for breakfast and never get sick of them. And if I have enough, then I will have some for lunch and dinner, too. With bananas as a meal, I never have to worry about doing dishes. The peel keeps the banana clean if I cannot wash my hands before eating one.
I do not know why I love bananas, and I do not care. I love bananas because . . . just because.
Many adults must explain my love of bananas. Some call me a monkey or an ape and say that is the reason. Others have said that I am a latent homosexual with the banana being a phallic symbol. I have heard both explanations many times, and just heard the latent-homosexual reason recently.
There was a big stink back in 2011 over a banana thrown at a black hockey player. Some saw it as a racist act. It would not bother me if people threw bananas at me—gently, of course, so I could catch them. If I am latent homosexual, then when is my homosexuality going to wake up? How long can I be a latent homosexual? I have had no wish to sleep with a male since my brother and I wet the bed together when we were kids.
Why do adults always want a reason for things? Why can’t they accept that I love bananas because . . . just because?
My love for bananas is so great that it destroys any offense I may choose to have over these silly explanations, or any other silly explanation for why I love bananas.