I have just arrived in Arkansas, and let me tell you: I have encountered a cast of characters like no other. It’s unclear to me just how many people actually live and work on this farm I have found, but each day holds a new bounty of farce. Today, as I was eating my midday beet (I grew and harvested myself, obviously), I met him. His name is Farmer Derek — yes, God given — and he’s got more than just a green thumb, if you know what I mean. His entire arm was stained green after a horrible accident involving a tractor and a tub of farm-grown, USDA certified, organic nuclear waste.
He was born and raised on the farm. In fact, he’s never left the property. I’ve asked around about him, and no one can honestly remember who his parents were or where they came from, but it’s clear they left eons ago. I heard they were menenists. Or was it mennonites? Only time will tell. The property adjacent to ours is raising a pack of beagles, and it is rumored that Farmer Derek spent ages five to eleven only in their care. I’ll be honest, that would explain a lot. On my first day, I asked him if we were able to consume any of the produce we grew on site. He joked and said, “absofruitly not, but if you want milk, you gotta take it straight from the teet.” And then he looked erotically at this cow. If I’m being perfectly candid, I don’t think he was totally joking. But he’s really hot.
Until we speak again, Diary.