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Prologue: A Gamer’s Downfall

Once, I was a mere mortal. A humble gamer, mindlessly clicking through Steam sales. But then THIS GAME appeared: *Turnip Boy Commits Tax Evasion*.
“A cute indie game,” I thought. Little did I know, it would rip apart not only my tax bills but also my fragile grip on reality.

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It began innocently. I, a pixelated turnip, was handed a tax bill. I stared at it, thinking, “Pay? No way!” My leafy fingers shredded it with the fury of a thousand accountants on April 15th.

*AND THEN IT HIT ME.*
A wave of anarchic energy surged through my veins. I wasn’t just playing a game. I WAS THE GAME. I was Turnip Boy.

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By this point, I was no longer just human. I had become one with the soil. IRL, I dug up my yard at 3 AM, wielding a watering can like a medieval knight’s sword. My neighbors called the police, but I knew they were just agents of MAYOR ONION’S CORRUPT REGIME.

*Fun Fact:* My tomatoes now fear me.

Oprindeligt skrevet af “Neighbor Karen”:

“Why are you shouting ‘FOR THE GARDEN!’ at your mailbox?”

BECAUSE THE GARDEN NEEDS A HERO, KAREN.

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Turnip Boy taught me the truth about life: hats are everything. In-game, I collected every single one. In real life, I went broke on eBay buying tiny crowns, chef hats, and—yes—a watering can I now wear on my head.

*Hats I Own Now:*

• A cowboy hat (for tax-evading yeehaw vibes)
  
• A wizard hat (because every vegetable needs magic)
  
• A tinfoil hat (Mayor Onion isn’t the only one watching)

*NOTE:* My cat is now wearing hats too. She’s joined the cause.

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When I reached the end of the game, I wasn’t prepared for the *EARTH-SHATTERING LORE.* My leafy brain almost sprouted roots trying to process the truth behind the garden’s dystopian government. Taxes, greed, radioactive pigs—it was all a metaphor!

Or was it real?
I can no longer tell.

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This game took everything from me: my sanity, my savings (spent on hats), and my trust in vegetables. But it gave me something greater: FREEDOM. Freedom from taxes. Freedom from rules. Freedom to shred every piece of paper that enters my home.

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P.S.: If the IRS asks, you didn’t see me.