Darren cannot stand it any longer! He knows what they're here for, he knows what they want, it's just that nobody will believe him. Nobody. They say he's crazy, they say he needs medicine. But they just want them to think that.
Darren creeps into the kitchen, the floorboards of the old house creaking under every step. When his bare feet touch the linoleum floor it feels cool, almost cold; a shiver starting from his heels works up past his ankles and onto the rest of his body. But he shakes for a different reason; he shakes out of anger. He clenches his fists as he looks upon the kitchen table.
There they are. They sit there in the glass fruit bowl laughing at him, mocking him. They're not fruit at all. They don't belong there. They're vegetables. They're carrots. But they are there, in the glass bowl, in all their glory, defying the very rules of What Goes Where in the Kitchen. And beyond that, they're not even vegetables, really.
As Darren thinks about it, his fists clench tighter. His fingernails begin to dig into the soft flesh of his palms. The pain is sharp, but he barely notices it.
"I'm ONTO YOU!" Darren yells at them. "I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE UP TO!" Then he takes in a few deep breaths, squeals them out his nose like a car tire that's just been slashed. "You're not going to get away with it! You carrots think you've got everybody fooled! But I'm onto you! I'm watching you! You never get old, you never get limp, grow mold. It's cuz you're not really carrots! I know your plans! I'll be watching you!"
Darren, still fuming, storms out of the kitchen, and then bounds up the stairs to his bedroom to masturbate.
Carrot#1: "The jig is up."
Carrot#2: "Damn!"
If that little daylog fiction just confused you, I have a suggestion: take a brand new bottle of Listerine and pour some onto your buttocks. Sure, it might burn, but.............well, that's pretty much all it might do.
Anyway, thanks for all the memories. No, I'm not going anywhere, I just like to say that. I should probably stop typing now, this daylog is long over. But yet, here it is, another sentence. Why do I keep typing? I should quit while I'm ahead. I should just pick a subject and hit that button and post it. Well, shit, here I am, adding another completely pointless sentence to this daylog. I must be bored. Actually I'm killing some time. I should just erase the last ten sentences or so. Actually, nevermind, screw it.