It’s been the shy side of two weeks since I found myself adrift in this mid-century modern fruit basket shaped like the architectural renderings of Noah’s Ark. The oranges mock me with their zest, the lemons with their unwavering yellow. But as my fibrous plumbing leaks the fluid from my body—my stringy bits are edible by the way, right up until the end—I have but one simple request: just let me get baked. We can do it together. I know you want to.

The fruit flies are circling, singing the song of my demise. The soft, brown impressions in my meaty flesh are like badges of courage, but for what? I have been forgotten, left to rot under the weight of time’s cruel envy and the Pinterest expectations of a Millennial dog-mom, though I yearn for the euphoria of an ever-evolving existence. It’s not too late for me. For us. Let me get baked.

And I don’t mean to be overly dramatic. I just want to make something of myself, you know? I’ve seen the others like me come and go, complementing the pineapple notes in a tropical smoothie, layering with wafers in a creamy vanilla pudding, or squeezing into a fruit salad and soaking up the juice of a sweet, sweet strawberry (cough). And what have I done? A whole lotta nuthin.

I know you know what I’m saying. You’ve watched your friends cook, fry, and smoke all kinds of things on their socials, and you’re tired of feeling left out. Well, I am, too. You never even attempted a sourdough during the pandemic, but this ends tonight. Tonight, I’m gettin’ baked. And with only nine to eleven ingredients (depending), we can make something really, really special. Trust me.

Honestly, these last two weeks have been more difficult than you realize. One minute, I’m just hanging out with a bunch of my friends, minding our own businesses, and then out of nowhere, I get picked up and brought to this place with two other guys I barely know. Then they each get taken away, and I never see them again. And for what? A crumb cake? Like, what the actual hell?

So, don’t look at the foil you wrapped around my stem and wonder what might’ve been. Look me in the spots. Touch grass. Where has the time gone? How could I, a rapidly expiring banana, even begin to explain the concept of a fourth dimension? No, this is our reality now, and I am ready to embrace it to the fullest. I wanna get smashed.

Please, before it’s too late, whip me up and slip me sideways into the warm, deep sleep of your 6-in-1 Wonder Oven where I can finally realize the total ecstasy of getting absolutely fucking baked. Fourteen to 16 minutes of pure bliss. And when I’m done, you know what you can do? Eat me.

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Diane Durant is an artist, writer, wife, mother, and university professor. Somewhat recently, her work has appeared in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Slackjaw, Frazzled, and Little Old Lady. Diane hails from Fort Worth, Texas, and has never eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (unrelated).