This morning I stumbled upon a site that is hosting an interesting contest. The title is pretty self-explanatory: Write Like A Carrot. It’s simple, it’s unique, it’s adorable, and it has the potential to heal the world. Also, you could win five bucks. This is not a hoax. This is not a dream. The best written entry will win a (possibly crisp) $Lincoln$. Ch-ching!

All silliness aside (there is plenty of that on the site), I find myself unable to begin to comprehend how to enter the mind and persona of a carrot. In fact, the very idea takes my brain and shakes it from its stem. It rattles out the coherent thoughts I thought I once had and shows me that sadly, I have never imagined a worthwhile thing. At this writer’s very core, I am only a product of some other writer’s imagination and even that omnipotent creator is a farce, a hack, a dimwitted buffoon probably on constant and insufferable bed rest. For how can she be anything but incompetent if I have never been given the necessary acumen to conjure up a carrot’s hopes and dreams? And what does this say of my own carrotchters whom I have toiled with for so many years? No, I mean of course characters. Silly wabbit. Say characters in 100 characters or less. Take your Lennies and your Alices and your Iagos and put them in a zoo. No carrot for you! A horse, a horse! My garden salad for a horse!

Did I say all silliness aside? I suppose I presupposed I didn’t see such madness coming forth. I blame it on the carrot.

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Here, at last, I find myself withering towards death, dear Margaret. As I sink further in this foul earth, my final thoughts are drawn. I see you clearly as you once were: golden, crisp, desirable. Your insatiable, green tuft top drove me to the outer edge of reason and I am afraid I was less than admirable in your presence. The night you uprooted to some unknown pasture, the moon was full and I wept under it. Now, my tears soak the very terra we swore we’d never abandon. Alas, I leave this world alone. Dear Margaret, I forgive you.