The Diary of a Potato

January 16th 2015

Dear Journal,

While 'tis true that I swore to write constantly, I'm afraid that between work and writing my own scripts, I've no time to loiter around writing in a diary. Surprisingly I'm not fawning over the miraculously gorgeous tomato tonight (he may be a man but he's fine. I am a completely heterosexual potato, but I have the right to appreciate beauty in any and every form. Right).

For this morning I arose to find a gun being pointed to the faces of my new companions. What shocked me more, was that the attacker had a gun pointed back at him. I'd be lying if I were to say that I weren't about to turn around and scamper back up the stairs like a terrified rodent. I was stopped, however, by a familiar French accent. "Spater, ami... elp, maybe?"

So I smacked their attacker with a vase. He fell to the ground slowly, it was like something out of an action movie. "Duuuuuude! That was siiiiick!" Potter then told me, after promptly tying up the young vegetable and shoving him into one of our closets.

I asked them why exactly was there a stick of broccoli pointing a gun at them this early in the morning. "You see, Spater. It was not us zhat pissed off zhe mafia boss, oui? Zhe mafia boss pissed us off. So I insulted 'is 'air and called 'is suit cheap and repulsive."

"...and then I kinda threatened him a little bit. In my defence, I was a little bit intoxicated."

It's safe to say that I now have a bruise on my head, due to the force of me smacking my head against our dining table. It apparently happened a few months ago, and now I've been very unwillingly dragged into their uncontrollably situation. I have an intense desire to go home and weep to my dear mother. It may be inappropriate for a grown potato to have such childish thoughts, but to be completely fair, it has barely been a month since I moved here, and I'm already, as Potter would so eloquently put it, in some deep shiiiiiit.

-Spater McStarch