I hate myself for doing this. Enjoy.
Wednesday
Woke up at the ass crack of dawn to begin my daily toil in the Farmville Fields. The unseen master left me explicit instructions that I must plow to the right of the futile pagoda, and plant Pattypan Squash because he had recently unlocked level sixteen. I am allergic to those bastard gourds and am forced to live off of stolen soybeans. As a result of my poor diet I have had dysentary for some time now, and feel quite weak. The sickenly stale smell of Natural Light wafts from the master’s manor, as he was up all night with the neighbors celebrating a lucrative pumpkin harvest. I shan’t see a dime and he won’t even let me plant aloe vera (from level fourteen) to tend to my various blisters and rake wounds. Oh how they pus and burn. To make matters worse, I am forced to wear an insufferable red bow in my hair and my eyebrows are barely visible. My shame knows no bounds.
Friday
I awoke somewhat later today as it was forecasted to be cloudy, and I would not have to deal with the intolerable cruelty that is the Farmville midday sun. Unfortunately, the clouds quickly released a torrent of rain and enough lightning to make Zeus himself quiver in fear. However, I must press on as to not ruin the strawberry harvest. I once accidentally let the crop wither while my master fell asleep in the library studying for his business ethics exam. As just punishment, he made me sleep outside of the protection of the Farmville cottage for a week. The wolves are ravenous, and travel in packs seeking sheep and weak farmers such as I. Luckily, they could not climb the plum tree I had made myself a sleeping nest in. I grew quite fond of that tree, and was sad when it was sold for thirty coins. The money was most likely spent at the Farmville “massage” parlor, as Master quite enjoys those happy endings. Farewell for now, the duck and pig topiaries need pruning.
Saturday
I have asked incessantly for a tractor to aid me in my chores and give me a free hour or two in the day, but my master has continued to ignore my pleas. Instead of wisely spending his coins on something to keep the farm in a stable economic condition, he blew a substantial amount of coins on garden gnomes at the market today. I believe he was smoking some strain of Farmville marijuana. Today I saw another farmer at the market. He had overalls like mine, and a green mohawk. We both nodded at each other, and I hope we meet again, for I am so very lonely with only the chickens to share my hopes and dreams.
*Later that night
I awoke to a knock on my sleeping cupboard only to discover the boy with the mohawk and overalls. He silently motioned me to join him into the night, and being an innocent and naive soul I quickly followed. He led me to a hut in the forbidden Farmville woods, where I met dozens of other sad and malnourished farmers such as myself. They spoke of evil words such as "mutiny," and "uprising" and "union." I clasped my hands over my ears to muffle out the horrid sounds, but they were forcibly ripped off my head and I was pushed to the ground. A girl farmer readied her arm to throw an eggplant at my frail frame, and I raised an arm in withering defense. In the nick of time my friend with the mohawk reached out before the aubergine could hit me, deflecting it and sending it sailing towards a plaster bust of Mark Zuckerberg's head. It fell to the ground and instantly shattered, sending an audible gasp throughout the crowd.
"Enough." Spoke my friend. "For too long have we stood in the shadows, hiding behind our groovy scarecrows and pink hay bales. I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day. An hour of woes and shattered shields, when the age of men comes crashing down! But it is not this day! This day we fight!"
The crowd cheered, and he was lifted amongst shoulders and carried out of the cabin. I was happy to have shared his shining moment with him, and didn't feel it was necessary to tell anyone he had ripped off his entire speech from Return of the King.
Sunday
I wear a mask and gloves. My breaths come short and rapid as I fumble with my semi-automatic and flamethrower. It is time to take back Farmville for ourselves. As I run into the night amongst my farm brethren free of fear, free of hunger, free of pain, I realize what I have been denied. Too long have I been shackled with these fields of wheat and pineapples, which doesn't even make geographical or meteorologic conditional sense. I cannot take back my youth or my optimism, but I can damn well take back my dignity.
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