Against Lambchop’s bitter protestation, I got a farm on eBay in a fit of tipsy impulse. While I was at it, I got an uninhabited island off the coast of Panama, but I’ll deal with that later. I also considered buying that town from The Hunger Games and filming complicated Twilight fanfic reenactments in it.
So. The farm. It’s…well…farmy. Not what I expected at all. No one showed up to greet me with a cheese plate! The animals smell quite strange. I really did not want to know where filet mignon comes from after all.
Apparently there are people out there in America who can’t have nice things. I was absolutely stricken to find this out. Did you know that to farm, you have to do work? There is dirt. Flies. It’s not all tumbles in the hay loft. And hay is ouchy anyway.
As a result of my little lifestyle experiment, I came to the painful realization that if I can’t have nice things, I don’t want to have any things. If I can’t have bespoke custom measured thousand thread count sheets, spun from 24 carat gold, I don’t want to sleep. If I can’t have European white truffles grated onto my tongue, I don’t want to eat. If I can’t glance at the hour on a Patek Philippe Supercomplication, time should stop.
I think I’m a Buddhist now.