I am not so blind as to not realize that this topic is subject to crude metaphors or, perhaps worse, an epic allegory of erectile dysfunction, but this is genuine human sorrow, derived from the fact that the moment I finish writing this, I will have to throw away a banana for having turned stale. It sits on my desk now, unaware of its fate. This is for you, banana.

I remember like it was yesterday: my girlfriend and I were walking through the supermarket when suddenly I remembered my mom had called me earlier, telling me to add more fruits to my diet. In browsing through the produce section, I sought a fruit that was cheap and easy to prepare. At 28 cents a pound, none compared to you.

For two weeks you sat on my desk, not complaining when I chose to eat your siblings first, patiently waiting your turn. When I watched TV, you never complained about it being too loud. When I was doing my homework, you did your best to not distract me. Our friendship, if you don’t mind me calling it that, was so strong, you often reminded me of my good childhood friend, Margaret. Indeed, on more than one occasion, I would get confused and mistake you for her, much to my embarrassment.

And throughout this past week, even as your skin lost its original yellow luster, you never rushed me. Even when I grabbed you, and we both realized you were no longer as firm, you did not raise your voice. You believed, deep down, that I would come around to eating you. Of all the fruits I’ve ever had, you always were the most selfless.

And when I first entered elementary school, when I did not yet have any friends, you were the first to step up and introduce yourself. I was shy, did not say much, but you welcomed me into your heart nonetheless, and in doing so, made a little boy so happy he could cry. But I suppose all good things must come to an end, and if I did not treat you the best way that I could, if I ever hurt you in any way, I am sorry.

I’ll truly miss you, Margaret.

The townsfolk thought that by having me tarred and feathered, I would die from humiliation, but they only helped me complete my human-rooster transformation.

I roamed the night as a feathered vigilante, serving justice to those who taint this city of mine. In the darkness, I scoured alleys for criminals, all of whom cowered at the sound of my name. Who am I? I’m Roostero.

Regular people were easy enough to deal with, but occasionally, freak accidents introduced more troublesome supervillains. The worst of these was the Human Hen, whose demonic powers included Continuous Nagging. “Clean your room” she would say, before launching into a more focused beam of commands: “Washthedishestakeouthetrashstopeatingsomuchicecream.”

That attack was particularly strong. I remember collapsing from its impact one weekend afternoon, when I had every right to waste my time. I fell to the ground, my entire body aching, unable to continue the fight. Luckily for me, a nearby group of schoolchildren tossed bread crumbs onto the ground, which I hungrily devoured. Replenished, I gathered all my energy and proceeded to turn myself into a 50-lb frozen turkey. Nothing the Human Hen said after that had effect anymore. I remained an immovable force. When she was finally tired, she simply left, defeated. The schoolchildren cheered my name as I transformed back into my human-rooster form and ran away while flapping my arms.

Those were the old days when vigilantes still garnered some respect. Now, all I hear is how we think we are above the law while the rest of the city rots away.

One day, the world will look up and shout, “Save Us!”

And I will look down, and whisper, “GRRAWK!”

Whenever I pass the intersection of Atlantic and Valley, my memory harks back to the early days when I first arrived in L.A. for college. I was 18, and the world was without limit. I knew because I had seen commercials for Girls Gone Wild.

It is true that pretty much all I knew about L.A. then, I had seen on DVD, and so it was with some disappointment that I accepted how uneventful my arrival actually was. The palm trees of Hollywood were tens of miles away, the “excitement” of the city paled in comparison to what I was used to in Hong Kong, and most unfortunately, I learned that Hotel California was only a metaphor. I put away my steely knife, thoroughly embarrassed.

But there was one moment that made me feel I had truly arrived. I was walking from my motel room to Ralph’s, a 24-hour supermarket. Earlier in the week, they had invited me to join their savings club, and given the exclusivity of such an establishment, I felt honored to be a repeat customer.

It was in the afternoon, the sun was burning, and I had just walked halfway through the parking lot. Suddenly, from a car behind me, someone shouted, “Don’t wear orange!”

As I turned around, the car sped away, its tires screeching and raising dust. I looked down, and sure enough, my T-shirt glowed as bright as citrus fruits.

It was in that humble moment that I realized I had finally arrived in Los Angeles, where the sun does not forgive, the supermarkets and I are on a first name basis, and fashion tips are dispensed like gang shootings.

Biblical events have begun taking place on my body. Today, a tiny Moses parted my hair.

“What is up, Tiny Moses?” I said. “I was all ready to gel my hair to meet the ladies!”

Tiny Moses was a bit stunned, not knowing the source of my booming voice. “Wh-what?” he said.

“I said, ‘What is up, Tiny Moses?’”

“Um, uh, sir. Heaven is what is up. The glory of the kingdom of God. Home of the saints and the angels. Land of eternal life for the saved children of the Lord. That, sir, is what is up.”

“Aw, you can call me Kevin.”

Our conversation fell silent. I could see he mistook me for the Almighty, and was wondering why the Lord would choose such a common name (he already knew, like, four Kevin’s). And I was pretty sure the route to Israel did not include my forehead. A cursory search on Google Maps would have shown that much to be true.

“Lord,” he finally said, breaking the silence, “I see something in the distance towards the South. Is it a burning bush that beckons me?”

“No, silly Tiny Moses, I have a penis.” And then I added, in a decidedly softer voice, “It burns because I have urinary tract infection.”

That was the last time I heard from Tiny Moses.

As an 11th Grade teacher, I know the importance of the role I play in fostering knowledge and curiosity in youngsters, in ushering in a new generation of potential scientists and doctors, in helping my students believe they can achieve whatever they want as long as they work hard and push themselves to the best of their abilities. But Jessica Song is so hot I will not let her graduate.

Oh, Jessie. You and your hotness. I remember the first day you stepped into my class in your knee-high socks and short skirt. You sat in the front row, crossed your slender legs, and proceeded to scribble in your spiral notebook with your H2 pencil. Your penmanship was flawless, and your spelling, to die for. It was almost like you read my mind and knew about my note-taking fetish.

I know you are disappointed I gave your paper on Othello an F. To be honest, it was the best paper I read in my eight years of teaching. You could have won scholarships based on that essay alone. Genius was the way you incorporated concepts you learned in class, the way you utilized proper keywords, the way you followed MLA guidelines perfectly to formulate your bibliography. But damn, you have nice breasts.

Still, you are too young, Jessie. The others would not understand. That is why I’m failing you, Jessie. Stay here until you’re in your 20’s and then we can go off to a foreign country and start a new life together. What do you think about Russia? I watched your Powerpoint presentation on the Cold War, and you seemed to know a lot about the place.

I’ll be waiting, Jessie. You do not know it yet, but our life will be beautiful. Until then, please keep taking notes. Please keep putting i before e except after c. I love it so much when you do that.