Everyone has a bad year from time to time. You total your car, you don’t get the dream job, you’re told by your dentist you have TMJ and should never chew gum again. These things can happen to anyone, and I get that. But have you ever heard of someone’s fruit-based housing rotting from underneath them? No. That problem is all mine.
I have roommates, but we all have one job. Mr. Centipede is the mayor of New York City. Miss Spider owns a club. Earthworm is a skin-care company mascot. Mrs. Ladybug is an obstetrician. Mr. Grasshopper is a concert violinist. Glowworm is the light in the torch of the Statue of Liberty. And my job is to take care of the peach in which we live.
“James, how did it get to this point?” I honestly don’t know. I noticed some mold a while back, but nothing more aggressive than the average moist home. So I called a mold removal service. They assessed the damage and explained that there is a difference between the mold that grows on fruit and the mildew that accumulates within a house. I could have looked that up myself, but did I think of that? No. I paid $650 to have it explained to me, and I don’t even have a single college credit to show for it.
Mr. Centipede gave me a hand with scraping off the mold. Well, 42 hands, which made it go by much faster. We finally had it under control when, wouldn’t you know, we discovered a bug infestation. Listen, sometimes when I party with my pals, we jokingly call it an infestation. That’s not what I’m talking about. There were thousands of little crawly mites burrowed deep in our beloved home. Miss Spider tried to reason with the little buggers, but they were not friendly. So I called an exterminator.
I know, I’m best friends with some of the greatest bugs on earth and I brought an exterminator into our home. I felt awful, but I had no choice. The exterminator came and assessed the situation while everyone was at work. Thankfully, we were able to quickly and naturally get the little pests out.
I finally felt some relief when I saw that, despite their recent eviction, the bugs left behind a whole bunch of fungi. While I tried to determine how to fix this new issue, I noticed that my entire freaking peach had started bruising and oozing. Who do you even call about that?! I mean, this peach survived a navigation through the high seas of the Atlantic Ocean in one piece, but now it decides to decompose?
Just then, a big glob of peach juice plopped onto the top of my head. I looked up and saw the sky. There was just a giant hole in the roof of the peach.
The pit had split and I quit.
I accepted that I am not cut out to be a homeowner. For crying out loud, I started living in this peach when I was seven years old and my parents were eaten by a rhinoceros. I’ve never had anyone to show me the ins and outs of owning a home, specifically one made of peach. I fought off mechanical sharks and undead skeletal pirates, but I surrendered to the struggles of homeownership.
Everyone agreed it was time to part with our beloved giant peach. We said tearful goodbyes, remembering the adventures and good times we had together. I packed my things and called a realtor to explain the situation. I told her I was interested in selling this peach and possibly buying a house made of bricks. You know, for some stability. She told me she would do what she could, but it would really be best if I could first make the necessary repairs to increase my chances of selling. I hung up and threw my phone into a well.
One thing led to another and now I’m living in a cave that belongs to a big friendly giant who insists I must stay with him forever so that no one can know of his existence. If I do leave the cave, there are nine neighbors who will catch me and eat me.
So, yeah. Not my year.