I wish I had some watermelon: a trickling black dew poppyfield mountain range (the deepest right corner of a bloodsplashed matador’s cape), sunbathing in a cornfield hide with rich green and pale kernel white weaves cupping its expansive hand under a succulent sunset.

I would never purchase a mutant watermelon with no seeds. A watermelon with no seeds is like one of those bougie teenage pseudo-rebels who channel their angst through MTV and other glossy venues of commercialized anguish. Just spit them out!