Dear Journal,
When I stirred from my slumber this dawn...well it wasn't really dawn yet, the sky was an upsetting shade of grey, and thick clouds suffocated the New Yolk skyline, as my dreams did to me. The past few nights were ultimately restless — one would think that after going on a date with the tomato of their dreams (Oh, Tomasso... being apart from you is torturous), it would be all I could think of. Alas, life is unfair in a way where my nightmares are haunted by clips and flashes of places and people I've met with not once in my life; screams and wails ripping through my own mouth that I never imagined I was capable of, all playing and replaying in my mind like the world's most twisted symphony.
I would have written here sooner, had I not been so weary the past few nights... As soon as I got home, I collapsed on my bed hoping, hoping like hell for a good nights sleep. Luck, however, deemed it reasonable to play on the side that wasn't mine, and despite falling asleep almost immediately, I'd simply wake up three hours later, terrified of going back to bed.
It's not just me either — I wish it were just me. Fry and Potter suffer the same fate, and we've developed a routine of going down to the living room one after the other every night, around three in the morning. We don't speak; we turn on all the lights, turn the telly up, and watch reruns of "Keeping up with the Kaledashians" 'til the Sun inevitably greets us. I wonder if they have the same dreams, and I would ask if I weren't so terribly unnerved. The reactions of our acquaintances after our supposed disappearance keep coming back to me.
Losing our memories, then filling them in so eloquently... It seems impossible, but at this stage, I'm far too tired to think of impossibilities.
On a more positive note though, I feel as if my poetry is coming along rather nicely. Maybe one day, I will be able to write works as magnificent as "Hamlettuce" but for now, I'd rather excel in my poetry and, dare I say it, become the greatest poet on the planet. Though, good Spud, if I don't get some damned sleep, I won't even be able to hand in an assignment for work — and at that point, even thinking of writing a single line would be absurd.
- Spater McStarch
YOU ARE READING
The Diary of a Potato
CasualeSpater McStarch was a normal potato, with a normal life, and a normal family. He was completely, utterly normal - in every sense of the word. Unfortunately for Spater, the world has bigger plans for the young potato who spent his entire life on a fa...
