As an autistic person, sometimes I talk about something about 1000% more than someone wants to hear about it,—which is part of why I enjoy blogging.
By channeling my special interests into random blogs I maintain across the too-big Internet, I give myself permission to talk about something as long as I want, provided I’m not being an anus about it. (Being an anus: The act of doing anything that would make a loved one think, “You’re being an asshole.”) (This will be easier to measure after Skynet.)
In other words, by blogging, I liberate myself from my disability-created loneliness by assuming the classic online position, “I’m just going to leave this here.”
Of course, this comes at the price of transparency. (It also comes at the price of starting too many blogs, than feeling anxious about how to finish them, until you realize “finish” is a relative term, and “too many” is extra, which is totally 2019 approved.)
Anyway, if privacy is more important than transparency, I can see how blogging could suck.
Depends on your priorities, right?
Privacy is obviously not as important to me as feeling like I have someone who wants to listen to the 1000%-sized conversation.
And you, dear reader, may or may not be interested in listening in to this conversation; after all, if you weren’t, why did you bother scrolling down this far?
The Saga of the Pineapple Tomato
I first fell in love with pineapple tomatoes while seed-shopping on Etsy. (Seed-shopping on Etsy: The act of tricking your buy-buy-buy-brainwashed-brain into turning your backyard from brown to green so you can invite people over to marvel at the things you bought.)
Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds—another place I purchase seeds, when I’m not on Etsy—describes the pinapple tomato as “very large, up to 2 lbs each,” a magical “yellow fruit [with] red marbling through the flesh,” and if that isn’t enough to grab you, it’s “one of the most beautiful tomatoes we sell.”
Don’t think you care about beauty? You should watch this Kurzgesagt video:
Aside: I haven’t bought seeds in two years.
Instead I just refrigerated the ones I accumulated during that seed-shopping binge.
It’s fun to watch the old seeds sprout. Yeah, they’re unreliable, but so is life, so get used to it, pretty plants…
Aside-within-an-Aside: “Get used to it.”
When people say this, they lose one point of respect.
A WHOLE POINT OF IT.
In Love with an Idea
So I fell in love with the pineapple tomato, (or at least the concept of it,) and I wanted to taste its juicy sweetness as soon as I could.
Unfortunately, the ones I raised from seed died from a fungus.
Then the babies I bought from our local nursery, the following year—which I planted in fresh soil, in a grow pot, on the complete opposite side of the previous year’s fungal zone—also died from white puffy blotches of madness.
Of course I’m going to try again next year.
Err. This year.
When does one plant pineapple tomato seeds? Like right now, right?
I’m going to use some old seeds again, and that might be the reason I don’t succeed until 2020. If you’re also titillated by the idea of magical tomatoes, here are some Baker Creek seeds in action from a successful grower on YouTube:
I should probably buy fresh seeds, at least in this instance. The seeds in the video, specifically. Baker Creek seeds.
I’m not going to do that, though.
So why’s it called a pineapple tomato?
Why not the Golden Tomato of Eden?
Because it has a tropical flavor. Because it tastes like an island. Because it’s a vacation, but it’s a tomato.
I’m going to grow this tomato, and I’m going to eat it like a fantastic vacation.
To be continued, friends. Tee. Bee. Cee.