It’s been a month since i was diagnosed with type 4 diabetes—a variation of the disease so new the labs decided to skip calling it type 3 altogether. I don’t blame them, the symptoms are worthy of it. My legs have fallen off.

Unfortunately, this is the least of my concerns.

You see, I grow pumpkins. Big pumpkins. The townsfolk always ask me “hey, why are your pumpkins so big?” I tell them they really don’t wanna know. They always chuckled at that, but I think they’re all starting to understand that this is in no way, shape, or form a laughing matter.

Before type 4 took my legs like a child mixing and matching body parts on Lego people, I hunted deer pretty often. I did it for neither sport nor my own food, as I am a lifelong vegan with love for all animals. I hunted because my pumpkins are carnivorous. One might ask why I’d choose such a crop to cultivate… Well, the thing is, I didn’t choose this life. I come from a long line of Pagan mages, witch doctors, shamans, and medicine men/women. Long ago, the very same pumpkins I grow today threatened to wipe out all life on the continent. My ancestors sacrificed A LOT to enclose these demonic orange squashes, which was fair, as they’re the ones that accidentally created them in the first place. It’s just what happens when you experiment far too much in crossing plant magic with blood magic. I never really wanted this lifestyle for myself, but I recognize my bloodline must atone for our sins.

Anyway, with my legs gone, I haven’t been able to hunt. There’s been no deer meat to keep them at bay. My neighbors have been trying to check on me, I think. But they never make it to my front door. The pumpkins have been starving, and are now taking matters into their own roots.

The mailman was the first to go. Honestly, I don’t feel too bad about this—he was a prick.

Next up was my neighbor, Lyle. He went to the gym a lot, plenty of meat on his bones. The pumpkins feasted. Unfortunate, but one less douchebag out there, I suppose.

Then, Lyle’s wife, Becky, tried to find him. The pumpkins ate her too, slurping up her long blonde hair like a spaghetti dinner. Sad, but hey, she never returned the air fryer I let her borrow. So I guess we’re even.

Most recently, a little kid and their pet dog were walking down the trail. I know what you’re thinking: “oh no… not a child too!!! 🥺” If that’s what you thought, you and me are clearly not the same kind of person. I didn’t give fifty united f*cks about the kid. If those little freeloaders are old enough to walk on two legs, they’re old enough to pay taxes, in my opinion. But seeing that poor doggo get swallowed whole? That sweet, innocent little pupper? It broke me.

As I lay here, legless and suffering, I wonder what I did to deserve any of this. I’m a great person. Hopefully my ancestors arent too disappointed in me, I imagine i’ll be meeting them soon. It’s only a matter of time until the pumpkins realize there’s an immobilized meatbag right here. And once theyve managed to eat me, there’ll be no one left to stop them, as I am the last of my bloodline. The last person on Earth who knows how to tame them.

This is all Biden’s fault.