The air that squeezed out of the toy tomato smelled odd.

Somewhere within the rubbery, off -putting aroma wafted an addicting hint that demanded second sniffs.

It was like recoiling from ones own funky armpits only to go back for more of the best that awfulness has to offer.

Like that girlfriend who leaves the store with your credit card cut to pieces but you can’t even scold her—let alone dump her—because her cuteness is entirely too intact.

Sensations goosefleshed me in waves of spikey tingles after inhaling the tomato air.
A new world constructed around me—it was like watching God create the universe on fast forward.

I swear I didn’t know that the inside of the tomato was slathered with ether. I was a naive kid then.

My mother is always so frustrated when I bring her groceries.
“These aren’t ripe enough to use.” she moans and says, “If they smell like tomatos, they’re ripe.”

That’s precisely the problem. But I can never explain—she’s my mother for cying out loud.