My Life as a Lemon

Maybe I took too much melatonin. One minute I was staring at the peeling paint on my ceiling, the next I was a lemon. A sentient, slightly greenish lemon perched precariously on a branch in a fantastical orchard. Sunlight, filtered through the vibrant leaves, created a mosaic of light and shadow on my skin. The air buzzed with the gossip of butterflies the size of birds and the frenetic drone of oversized bumblebees.

But a nagging sense of inadequacy gnawed at me, worse than a particularly enthusiastic citrus canker. The other lemons were a vision of sunshine yellow, each a perfect sphere basking in the sun's warmth. They huddled together in cliques, their conversations punctuated by bursts of citrus laughter. They barely acknowledged me. The isolation stung worse than a paper cut.

My greenish hue was a constant source of anxiety. Was it a sign of immaturity, a lemon who hadn't quite ripened yet? Or was it something more sinister, a mark of citrus canker, a disease that ostracized you from the orchard elite? Then, the most horrifying thought hit me: what if my green skin wasn't a temporary phase at all? What if my father was a rogue lime who'd somehow infiltrated the lemon groves, leaving me with this unwelcome legacy?

Just as I began to contemplate a dramatic fall from the tree (which would lead to being turned into industrial-strength cleaning liquid), a terrifying prospect unfolded. A giant metal claw descended from the sky, its pincers aimed squarely at me.

I woke with a jolt, sweat clinging to my skin. Relief washed over me, punctuated by the faint scent of citrus from my overzealous melatonin dose. Maybe being a human wasn't so bad after all. At least I didn't have the existential crisis of a greenish lemon facing an uncertain future in the clutches of a supermarket claw

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