The Death of a CFA Grass Farmer
The barren time comes every year and we are never ready. No matter how hard we labor, our stores only dwindle. Futility strokes my dingus with her cold hands, never granting me the mercy of release. We cannot outwork the famine. We cannot outrun the tent.
It comes every August. We wake to the sound of construction. We rise to see a monstrous shadow blocking out the sun. The tent looms. Its shape suggests a church, but it is unholy. Its walls are virgin white, but it is depravity manifest. Beneath its vinyl floor lies our very sustenance. Each blade of grass on the CFA lawn could have fed my family. Instead, they shrivel, deprived of the sun’s nourishment and the rain’s sweet relief. We shrivel, too.
The freshmen are no help. They shamble in and out of the tent as if sleepwalking, eyes closed to the suffering around them. I come up to them, hat in hand, and beg for anything to keep my family alive. Despite the bindle slung over my shoulder and the hashtag-shaped patches of dirt on my cheeks, no one has ever taken pity on me. They tell me to go fuck myself and get my own meal plan. I’ve tried, but CMU Dining doesn’t accept withered strands of buckwheat as currency. In my desperation, I once resorted to stealing grass from the Cut. When the Ultimate Frisbee team caught me, they took turns throwing me into the wind. I eventually blew away, gliding through the air until I smacked into Walking to the Sky. In my starving delirium, I thought I heard Daddy Thicc’s jeering laughter. I hit the ground face-first with tears in my eyes. My mouth was finally filled with grass, but my throat was too tight to swallow.
I do not know when this torment will cease. The end of orientation week is normally a time of hope. They’ve taken down the tent, leaving the barren ground underneath to be replenished with time. This year, though, we have another concern. The Mall tree hermits have been displaced and are begging us for a share of the lawn. We cannot spread our resources any thinner. As I write this, the automower is ripping up the last of our harvest. I have no reason to believe we will survive. If I must die, and my family along with me, I need everyone to know the reason why. Next time you watch the orientation magic show, ask yourself: is it worth the cost? Actually, the magic show is really cool. Maybe that was a bad example. But still.