I'm always the cantaloupeI don’t fricking like cantaloupe.  Does anyone?  If any of you actually like it, you obviously have horrible taste (as evidenced by your decision to read my blog).  Don’t get me wrong, I like fruit.

One of my favorite snacks is chocolate covered strawberries (assuming a chef sneaks into my house in the middle of the night and makes them for me.)  And what about bananas covered in Nutella?  Yes please.

As you know, I’m no fan of salad.  If I wanted to eat weeds I would go to Amsterdam and at least have a good time with it.  However, I will eat fruit salad, assuming it’s covered in sugar and served with a side of potato salad and hot dogs.  I’m so American.

I know what you’re thinking…”Come on Newlin.  Get to the point of this post.”  Okay, I’m getting there.  Calm down.  Couldn’t you read the title of this post? I’m the cantaloupe of the fruit salad.

Well, maybe I’m not so much the cantaloupe of the fruit salad, as my life is the cantaloupe.  It’s a melon of sorts.  Or maybe I’m a melon.  I don’t know.  My body looks like a melon.  Maybe I should have thought this post through further.

Normally, when I’m somewhere that is serving fruit salad, I’m at the end of the food line (because I’m first in the alcohol line.  I have priorities).  So by the time I get to the fruit salad, the only thing left is cantaloupe, melon, and a frown on my face.

But isn’t that really a metaphor for my life?  I can’t walk without falling, I can’t eat without spilling, and I can’t talk without making an ass of myself.

But you know what?  Even though I’m the cantaloupe of the fruit salad, I’m okay with that.  A lot of people like cantaloupe.  I may not be everyone’s flavor, but those people are missing out.  I can’t make them like cantaloupe, just like I can’t make myself like Kim Kardashian.

And cantaloupe isn’t too bad when it’s submerged in vodka.