New Year's Resolution Diet Log: An Open Letter to the Grapefruit

Dear Grapefruit,
What the fuck? Are you kidding me? I finish eating a juicy, sticky, marginally satisfying orange. This does not sate me. So, I look through the fruit bowl and I spy what looks to be a juicier, stickier, more substantial orange. This orange fucking rocks. I'd heard tell that there might be grapefruits in that bowl, but I've been doing jumping jacks and squat thrusts and I'm hungry so I ignore this warning. Big fucking mistake. I reach into the bowl and find you, posing as an orange you transfructite you, and I start to peel you. This is when your true nature becomes obvious. But I've started peeling. What am I gonna do?
"Well," I tell myself, "you look to be about the same color as a tangerine, which is delicious, so you too must be at least somewhat delicious."
"Of course I am," you tell me, "why would people eat me if I tasted bad?"
I've heard this argument from broccoli and caviar before and I should have ignored it then just as I should ignore it now.
I take a bite. What the fuck are you? A big pink ball of wasabe? Ouch. If lemons had anuses, they would taste like you, grapefruit. I douse you in grenadine, which should be able to make you delicious, but you laugh as you negate its pomegranate goodness with your sour lemon anus taste. You should be ashamed of yourself, grapefruit. That shouldn't be. You shouldn't be. I am never eating you again and the four people who will read this post en route to buying nothing are advised to do the same. You suck, grapefruit. I'm glad I threw you away. At least you've succeeded in killing my appetite. I'm pretty sure nothing short of pussy or tiramisu can get your infernal taste out of my mouth, a mouth which I have no desire to put anything else in. Except for pussy and tiramisu.
Yours in eternal hatred,
Garrett Cook
P.S
Fucking die.