You look out from your box at a green, green world, unduly pressured by the likes of cauliflower, cabbage, broccoli and Brussel sprouts into being ashamed of your shiny red skin. Your resume reads planting, pollinating, ripening and picking, but this means nothing to the poking, prodding finger, the fat squeezing hands - as if you've ever been anything but fresh. Lettuce and the like get tossed into shopping baskets quick as an outlaw drawing a six-shooter but no one take on your juicy plumpness without this thorough interrogation. It's as if they're somehow subconsciously cognizant of your early reputation - the toxic nightshade nemesis, the insidious love apple. You're as crimson as blood, maybe that's the problem. You're never just eaten, you're spilled.