I have tasted a peach

You may, if you are squeamish, not want to read this. I found a ripe peach on my tree. It seems there are too many peaches for the squirrels to eat and when I saw this ripe looking and softish-feeling peach I picked it and ran screaming (but in a masculine way) immediately into the house. But then, as I went to wash it (not that I felt it needed it but out of habit) I saw what I assumed to be evidence of the entrance of some sort of insect.

The scream that escaped my lips when I cut it open was considerably less masculine. As it turns out that hole was not made by an insect entering the fruit but by its exit. What ever was in there was gone (thank Christ) and I was able, in fact, to actually locate the tiny pin prick entrance.

Sometimes I can be braver than I appear, like last night when I opened my bedroom window at midnight. leaned out and yelled at the people playing really loud music and dancing in the street below my window, of course I did not sleep for 4 hours afterwards as I attempted to calm myself down, but I have digressed.

I cut away any bad looking bits of the peach and ate the remains. It was delicious.

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