Spinach leaf is wilted like my will to live.
Carrot is smarting with misguided eagerness; smug and crisp like my taste buds who cannot conceive of their immanent disappointment.
Cucumber sits in mocking splendor knowing full well that it is essentially just water.
Olive contrasts the disappointingly raw collective like Charlize Theron on an 8am train. It knows it’s got the goods, it knows.
Cheese cubes peep out of the unprocessed monotony like tiny beacons of hope.
And I’ve used up all my calories just typing the word ‘lettuce.’
This salad is antisocial; it’s devoid of a sense of humour. It reads Nicholas Sparks novels and cries on public transport. It takes - ‘how are you?’ literally, telling strangers at length about its sore knee. Even its mother doesn’t like it. It goes on package holidays and doesn’t ‘get’ animals. It wears textured turtlenecks.
This salad listens to Maroon Five and thinks Pauline Hanson’s just ‘misunderstood.’ It updates its phone too often and knows way too much about interest rates. This salad has no patience, doesn’t engage in subtleties and says ‘winning’ a lot.
Friends - this salad is dangerous. It is an insidious force of banal. It will reduce you to a hungry, sallow and submissive puppet. This salad does not have your best interests at heart.