There’s something deeply tragic, almost existentially grotesque, about the taste of a banana—a fruit that, in its dull yellowness and squishy texture, presents itself as a seductive promise of tropical delight, but which, once stripped of its smooth skin, reveals itself to be a cowardly compromise between sugar water and cardboard morality, and whose taste, if you’re honest with your own taste buds, sounds suspiciously like the chemically odorless, tactilely disorienting experience of taking into your mouth what is actually meant solely for protecting TV boxes: Styrofoam, that tragicomic byproduct of the petrochemical industry, which sneaks up on us in every package under false pretenses of protection and lightweight convenience.