Why I Hate Apples

Because one time, I lost my first tooth in an apple.

Mom was at a meeting, and Dad offered me a nice, shiny apple for a snack.

(I don't think he knew about the tooth.)

And he joked while he handed it over that the little hole on the side probably meant there was a worm inside. 

And I was no fool; I'd seen those little clipart pictures: 

So I believed him, because clearly, these things happen all the time.

I was, like, 6, ok?!

Anyway, I suffered from mild paranoia while I carried my apple to the kitchen table to enjoy it.

I took my first bite.

I felt something squishy and bloody and disgusting in my mouth.

And I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had nailed that worm.

And I probably screamed and cried; who really knows anymore.

Dad brought me a sauce pan so I could spit the worm out.

And I spit, and I spit, and I spit, but that nasty squishy thing was going nowhere.

And then Dad calmly said, "Alyssa, smile at me."

I bet the look on my face was priceless; this was no time for smiling.

But I did it anyway because I was a bit of a daddy's girl.

And he said, "You just lost your first tooth."

I mourned. 
At least, that's what I claim the tears were for.

They were actually pure hysteria, but whatev.

Trust me, you would hate apples too if such a traumatic experience was in your past.

The end.

Stay tuned, folks. 

Someday I'll tell my first date story on this here bloggy blog.

And that one really takes the cake.