I’ve made my farmhouse somewhat cozy with its five random chests, a table, and a chair.
I eat my sad, uncooked, foraged meals in that chair.
Why, just yesterday, I found the pear trees that bear fruit in early spring, so I sat myself down and crunched through three too-ripe ones for dinner. It was great. Who needs ambitions and dreams?
Honestly, the worst part—outside the crippling self-doubt and loathing—is the Samson withdrawals.
Staring at his picture in my journal and tracing the slew of question marks below his name is the only comfort I get each day before the sun sets fully and I have to go to bed because I feel too guilty to use the light Aurelia left me with now that I’m a useless member of society. It’s only a matter of time before Lazul evicts me.
The dread of wondering how long I have before such a thing happens is my sole companion. Alongside other dreads, of course. Like what I’ll do if I make it to winter without warm clothes or any idea how to start a fire.
Right clicking the furnace in game to make itwooshto life issucha luxury.
I miss the simple pleasures.
The simple breakdowns.
I couldn’t care less about how I wound up here. I never once asked why I existed in theother world. I just did. And it sucked. Because I existed in Florida.
Stupid Florida.
Stupid astigmatism.
I bet it’s the reason I’m trapped in bed this morning instead of out foraging under the false assumption that if I can just get enough sunlight, I’ll be okay again.
Staring up at the blurry rafters, I blame everything on the incorrect shape of my eyeballs.
Logic demands it has never once been reasonable to cry about how Samson will never love me, even though now social anxiety paired with general stupidity are the only things holding me back. Not, like, the fact he was a video game character before, thus making any romantic approach thoroughly impossible and stuff.
One of these hours, I will drag myself upright and water my garden before tramping off into forageable territory where no one else goes. I’ll berate myself on every opportunity I’mlosing while taking comfort from not missing out on Spring forageables. I need enough to last through the rest of the seasons. Assuming the stuff won’t rot in my chest collection.
Truly, who knows what the realism mod will thrust on me next. Best-by dates? What a joke.
Reality has been nothing but a raging disappointment from the moment I was born.
Anyway…what are the logistics behind a four-season year with only twenty-eight days in each? How fast is this world spinning around the sun? What do star charts look like?
Maybe Slate could tell me.
You know.
If I ever speak to anybody ever again.
I press my palms to my face and, once more, curse the absence of a shipping bin. If I could just tuck my goods in there to make money, maybe I could sneak requests for things intootherpeople’s mail boxes. Really flip the script on them with a:
Wanted
Fish and Chips
Note: leave at door, knock, money enclosed.
Thanks.
-Citrus
Sadly, expecting the prim and proper lord of Gem Ridge to lug things out of a box on my property in the dead of the night every day is absolutely insane.
I blame one hundred percent of my distress on having retained my astigmatism. Why did I give my sweet little character super cute glasses? What is wrong with my brain? You know, apart from the obvious, which is thatclearlyDr. Doofenshmirtz made it and installed a self-destruct button, that I keep pressing.
