Dear Diary: I’m shaken by a vision of a well-protected note safely ensconced in the loving embrace of a pristine bottle and sealed with a cork. A note that contains my innermost thoughts protected against the ravages of time for all humanity to benefit.
Such luxury! Bottle? Pfffft! Cork? Pffft! Note? Pfffft!
For 27 days I have been
lampooned marooned on this above-sea-level pile of sharp rocks. I barely have the energy to scratch this message using my own blood with the tip of a seagull quill on the back of a crab shell. Urgency compels me onward even in the face of certain defeat. It’s not like I have anything better to do.
I’m still exhausted from what felt like near rescue at the time. I did the You Can’t Touch This dance on the beach for a passing ship. Hopes quickly dashed to nopes as the ship failed to take notice of my Herculean gyrations. No, I don’t think I can dance.
If I ever get out of this mess I swear to you that I will enact a law that requires all ships on horizons to carefully observe the islands they pass within shouting distance. Seems like only good form.
I just had another vision, this time one of terrible darkness. That reminds me. It’s time to watch the Super Bowel.
Day 23 – The Splurge
The day started like any other but the reverie was soon displaced by strange goings on. Tree mail! Unexpected tree mail can portend good things or bad. I opened it with no small amount of trepidation.
Truth be told, I’d been counting the days and I figured The Splurge was overdue.
On the real show, there comes a point when the two tribes are merged into one. It’s called the Merge. It’s traditionally accompanied by a bountiful feast and strong drink. Since I’m a tribe of one and my wife has tormentingly forbidden “merging” with myself, at least as far as she knows, The Splurge was born.
The note heralded the fantastic news: Splurge day was here at last! As always, there were a few conditions. When it comes to hosting Abyss Island, my baby brings a full court press. We were going to be watching the Super Bowl at our friend’s house. The Splurge rules stated that as long as the game was on, the buffet of snackage was open season. I could eat and drink anything I wanted, without limit, until the final play.
If you’ve ever watched the show and think the Survivors get a little too excited you haven’t existed on mostly rice and beans for over three weeks. This was a very big deal and I was overexcited.
Upon arrival I spotted the snacks. Behold! A stick of celery! I picked one up and examined it closely. I breathed in its scent. And then I ate it. Raw. No ranch. It was sublime and delicious! For weeks I’ve been craving something – anything! – that resembled the color green.
The buffet included other delights like meatballs, chips, guacamole, salsa, bread, cheese, savory puff pastry thingies, chocolate fudgy cookies, and more. Of course there was also beer. I quaffed three bottles.
There was also surprise tree mail. Maybe another clue to the still elusive hidden immunity idol? No. Something better! A wedge of Roquefort cheese. I guess my baby really does read my blog! Who knew? I popped a crumble in my mouth. Heaven.
From watching the show I knew that Survivors who suddenly found themselves with too much to eat would overdo it and make themselves quite ill. Not me, baby. I’m too smart for that. I had a plan.
The plan was to limit myself to one tiny plate of snacks per quarter. The plan lasted until the opening kickoff.
For once the universe was on my side and extended the length of the game by 34 minutes (using powerful magic) to give me more time to pack things away.
About midway through the fourth quarter my body limited out. I was beyond full. I guess it’s a triumph of will that it took me as long as it did to hit that wall. I’m so proud of myself.
We will not speak of the events of the next two days. Let’s just say that my body required time to adjust to the dietary onslaught.
Day 26 – Reward Challenge
Tree mail had instructed me to be ready for a 7am challenge. Yet more change! I didn’t know how much more I could take.
Reach out and touch someone
Whether you love them or not.
If they don’t love you back
Your stomach will be fraught.
Before leaving for the island, the official rules had hinted at a visit from “unloved ones.” This moment was now at hand. My wife explained how the challenge would work.
I was provided with three choices: Mom, sister, and step-mom. The objective was to pick one and write them an email. If the chosen person replied to the email within four hours the challenge would be won.
At stake: A Polynesian dream come true. Kalua pork, macaroni salad, hula dancers, and a lei at our local Hawaiian restaurant where I would be permitted to order anything I wanted from the menu including a cocktail, sweet rum and juice nectar of the Gods.
I haven’t been in a restaurant in, oh, about 26 days.
Failure meant, my wife promised, that she would have “nothing for me.”
The rules expressly forbade any mention of the contest, too. I couldn’t, for example, say: “Write me back in under four hours and I’ll pay you $100.” The email would have to be approved before I could send it out.
I decided to try my sister. Mom’s internet access can be questionable at times. And we do not, evar, speak of that other person in this house. I stratergized that my sister was usually on Facebook this time of day and also had an iPhone. Instantaneous connection was assured, I reasoned.
Besides, she’s come through for me in the past.
Using all of my survival skills, I pounded out a missive to the sister. As my wife puts it, I “peppered her with a million questions.” How are you? How’s the hubby? How’s the kids? Quite unlike me, really.
The email was sent at 6:06am. I felt really good about my chances. I would going out to eat in a real restaurant. Just like a real boy!
But then the hours started to tick by. One hour elapsed. Nothing. Two hours elapsed. Nothing. Three, then finally, four. Finally the clock ticked 10:06am. Nothing, nothing, nothing! No reply. Challenge over.
It turns out that failure is an option.
As I write this recap it has been 25+ hours. Still no word from my sister. Well played.
Dammit, what the hell does a Survivor have to do around here to get a little love from his unloved one, anyway?
That night I tasted nothing except rice and beans. And failure. Sweet, delicious failure.
Mark my words. This is why, when I finally go on the real game, I’m choosing one of my cats as my loved one for the family visit. Trust me, that moment will be the stuff of legend. I’ll instantly secure a fluffy spot in the Survivor hall of fame. Cat!!!