Disclaimer: I don't own HIMYM. This fic quotes portions of Robin's diary from 7x18: "Karma," but adds new parts too. By directly quoting Robin's words from the episode, I do not mean to imply that I own them in any way, shape, or form.
Chapter One: Robin's Field Journal in Captivity
Dear Diary,
It is day four on this island, which the natives have dubbed "Long Island," perhaps referencing how each hour here feels like it may never end. So far, they have welcomed me and given me a rare glimpse into their bizarre way of life.
By "entertainment," they mean table shuffleboard, macramé classes, and other non-stimulating activities, which are only used in Manhattan to calm down drug addicts and the criminally insane.
A preliterate society, their menus display pictures of the food they offer. Everyone is forced to sing Happy Birthday four or five times a meal, and dessert has fireworks in it.
In their lairs, they often don a primitive shroud called a "snugget." And it is not uncommon for them to go to sleep before 9 PM, fearing, as they do, the night.
Also, Diary, I think writing in you is stupid, but you are a gift from Lily and she is watching me right now.
– Robin
-–- -–- -–- -–- -–-
Dear Diary,
It is still day four. None stir on this island, though the night is young yet. I have been told that strange rituals await me in the morning, such as "Nordic Walking," which I believe is a ceremony meant to summon their Sun God, as the activity begins before the sun has risen.
I dread the morrow.
Also, my phone has no bars here. This sucks.
– Robin
-–- -–- -–- -–- -–-
Dear Diary,
Thus begins the fifth day of my fieldwork amongst the island natives. They are a strange people, as likely to force feed you flaming desserts as they are to lull you into a coma-like trance of boredom. If I never attend another macramé class, it will be too soon.
Now I like greasy food as much as the next person, but I'm getting kind of tired of Chicken Fried Steak, mushy green beans, and gravy-loaded mashed potatoes. I mean, seriously.
I miss Manhattan, with its lights and clubs and wide assortment of ethnic foods. You can't get decent Japanese, Israeli, or Ethiopian food here for love or money. Not to mention Mexican, and I have the strangest craving for tacos at the moment…
– Robin
-–- -–- -–- -–- -–-
Dear Diary,
Writing in you is stupid. Really stupid. You aren't sentient and regardless of what Lily says, I don't "need an emotional outlet."
Pffff. Maybe she needs an emotional outlet, but Sherbatskys are built differently. We don't talk or cry, we suck it up and deal with it. Regardless of what "it" is. Not that I want to talk about "it," mind you. Not that there even is an "it" to talk about!
Remind me why I'm arguing with an inanimate object again? Oh, that's right, you can't because you aren't alive.
This is stupid. I don't want to hurt Lily's feelings, though. So… I'll write in you. For now.
– Robin
-–- -–- -–- -–- -–-
Dear Diary,
I am beginning to suspect that I am being held captive here. When I tried to leave, my native hosts reacted violently. Perhaps their cultural understanding of the guest-host relationship is more complex than I initially thought?
Dinner was Chicken Fried Steak again. And I'm going insane without any form of mental stimulation. It's at times like this that I really wish Bar– never mind.
I'm going to check my phone again. Maybe I'll have service long enough to send Patrice a distress signal.
– Robin
-–- -–- -–- -–- -–-
Dear Diary,
What was left of my brain has trickled out through my ears after this afternoon. The locals took me to listen to what they call "music." I fear that if this continues, I will have no will left to resist their efforts to assimilate me into their society.
I have already lost track of the days since I first set foot on this isle. What will go next?
– Robin
-–- -–- -–- -–- -–-
Dear Diary,
The natives gave me my own snugget today, and introduced me one of their holiest rites. While dressed in snuggets, they recline on cushions, eat ice cream straight from the tub, and watch their priests perform strange deeds on a glowing screen. I believe that these priests are called "Guidos," though my spelling may be off. The ice cream appears to act as an entheogen, transporting them to a different plane of existence. It's tasty, though. The ice cream, that is.
They're trying to make me one of them, Diary, and I begin to fear… I may like it.
– Robin
-–- -–- -–- -–- -–-
Dear Diary,
I write in you by the flickering of my flashlight, afraid that my hosts will discover my un-Island-ish behavior. It is nearly nine o'clock, after all.
Hmmm, I'm kind of sleepy, actually.
I'll write more lat– hold on just a second! It's only nine o'clock. I haven't just assimilated, I've gone native! This is bad, Diary, very bad.
I need to come up with a plan to escape. But I'll come up with the plan tomorrow. Tonight… tonight, I need to sleep.
– Robin
-–- -–- -–- -–- -–-
Dear Diary,
I tried to sneak out of the house during the day today. They caught me and forced me back inside.
So it's become clear to me, Diary, that I must attempt a dramatic escape. I will fake a stomach ache during dinner. Then, after Marshall and Lily leave for Bingo Night, I will sneak out the back. I'll swipe Shirley's Rascal and drive to the train station.
Shirley's 42, by the way, and rides a Rascal. I swear it's the second half of Wall-E here. Fat people stuck in chairs? Check. Ugly, shapeless clothes? Check. Mindless, brainwashed masses? Check. And there aren't even any cool futuristic robots. I mean, c'mon, if I'm going to be stuck in Wall-E, I might as well get the robots.
Wish me luck! Not that you can, of course. You aren't alive. (How d'you like that, huh? Huh?)
Wow. I do need to get out of here.
– Robin
-–- -–- -–- -–- -–-
Dear Robin,
Oops! You almost left this behind. Good thing I'm on top of things, huh?
I really think that this diary will be a healthy outlet for you, you know. Diaries don't judge and they can't spill your secrets.
Speaking of secrets, you and I need to have a serious talk, missy. Yep. About that thing I mentioned at Punchy's wedding. I may have lost this battle, but I fully intend to win the war. Surrender, Robin, for escape from me is futile. (Marshall writing now: She's right. Escape is futile.)
Best of luck finding a new apartment, sweetie!
Love,
Lily
P.S. You didn't like the Chicken Fried Steak?
A/N: It's been scientifically proven that people who review stories are smarter, better looking, happier, and wealthier than non-reviewers. True story. Why don't you give it a try? (Disclaimer in fine print: Aforementioned effects of reviewing may not be discernable until after you've repeated the action thousands of times.)