I have never liked olives. I have willed it, so many many times, but I have simply never liked them.

From the black rings that make constellations on a supreme pizza, to the green planets orbiting a martini glass, or wine dark gems warmly nestled next to garlic pieces in a finger bowl, the galaxy swirl of tapenades.

I see exactly how their briny, salty, fatty nature can completely change a dish, can elevate a salad, can punch you in the face with flavor.

I have seen olive groves with their peaceful leaves playing in the air, and I’ve tasted olive oils that are somehow as refreshing as lemonade, but the second the fruit itself hits my mouth, it’s a no.

I have spent years trying to find a way to like olives. I’ve expended time and effort attempting to somehow manifest some comfort with them; love for them. Trying to convince myself I could swallow this.

Don’t you think if it was a choice, I’d like olives by now? Don’t you think I know it’d be easier just to like them? Don’t you think I’m aware that I’m missing out on something delicious, wonderful, beautiful?

I don’t want to spend my time obsessing over trying to like olives anymore, not when there is so much else to explore. I don’t want to spend my time obsessing over trying to connect with the gender I was assigned at birth anymore, not when there is so much more to explore. Regardless of how attached other people are to olives.