Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

Mostly rambles, few brambles

I Know You’re Sacrificing Yourself For Our Village Tomorrow, But Today You’re Being Kind Of A Grouch

I don’t mean to complain; I know, as you’ve belabored, that you are the one getting thrown in the volcano tomorrow.  Again, bless your heart; I know that without your sacrifice we won’t be able to achieve sufficient crop yields. But, today, buddy, you’re being kind of a pill.

I’m incredibly grateful—ask anyone, I love crops! I get you might not be as jazzed on dying as the Village Elders made it seem during Yam Feast. Waiting for certain horrific death is probably, like, super irritating, but come on, stop sulking, stop complaining that your last mortal breakfast had a “dogshit oat-to-meal ratio,” and stop whipping those hot pebbles at me while I re-grout your bathroom. I’m trying to gift you an enjoyable, erotically adventurous day. The harvest spirits do prefer a smiling sacrifice.

If this is a ruse, you should know you won’t save yourself by threating to be a mopey corpse. There are no loopholes. The Elders have never rescinded a sacrificial decree on account of crabbiness. Tomorrow, as you’re bound and carried, with the sacred scream-muffling parchment stuffed in your mouth, you’ll think, “Why did I spend my last day grumbling over oatmeal?  Why did I even ask for oatmeal when I was offered yam steak, yams casino, and hot yam-bucha?”  But tomorrow your tongue will go un-sated, tomorrow your genitals will be left forever wondering what those highly specific bucket-list requests might have felt like, for tomorrow’s agenda only contains searing death, and, of course, the multiple rounds of ceremonial spankings. 

You remember Kevin, three-harvests-ago’s cranky pre-cadaver? That drip spent his whole Eve of Indulgence totally celibate and muttering that what we were doing was backwards and that we were all godless savages who deserved to starve. Though he didn’t make me re-grout anything, he did waste his day grumbling while making me keep de-alphabetizing and then re-alphabetizing his geodes.

Repulsed by my naked suggestions and refusing to touch the complementary opium gift basket, Kevin’s misery seemed sincere and yet he opted to waste his day sobbing and praying. I asked if he was praying to Almighty Yam, but he said no. He claimed his non-yam deity would send him into an afterlife of eternal bliss, but I kind of just rolled my eyes, remembering how the Elders preached that the souls of wicked mortals and sour sacrifices would be doomed in death to wallow alone forever on Turnip Crag.

We hurled Kevin into the crater the next day and I returned to normal life, albeit now with a new, unshakable knowledge of geodes. At harvest, though, Kevin’s stress materialized with a meager yam crop. Not to question the Elders, but maybe we could have let Kevin continue serving as a visiting missionary.

I want to make your last day great; it’s my duty as the elected servant-concubine! So if going to spend the day on my knees, could we please do something more hedonistic than re-grouting?

Believe me when I say that I am game for whatever depravity resides in your soon-to-be-boiled brain. Everything that you’ve read about my carnal appetites on bathroom stalls is absolutely true—so find that mealy slurry, ready those hot pebbles too, maybe we get a little opium-faded and let’s kick off one hypersexual evening!

It’s your last day alive, so let’s live a little.

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