October 23, 2287
Dear Diary, today, I woke up to get some toast, and a half hour later my husband was dead. I miss him dearly, even though his eyes were just a little, teensy bit far apart and his nose wasn't just right. We had a child together, Shaun. He is black, and presumably still alive. And presumably still black.
My robot is still alive, or as "alive" as a robot can be. Codsworth told me to go to Concord. I went to Concord and got shot a lot. Fuck you, Codsworth. I found a house. It's garbage. But at least there's a mattress and a ton of drugs here. Tomorrow, my life starts anew with some clingy dog I found in this horrible, horrible wasteland.
October 24, 2287
Half way through Concord, Dog started barking incessantly. It was as though he was saying, I found something. I thought it was pretty cool that Dog wanted to lead me to treasure. It was less cool when it ended up being two bottles of Nuka Cola. They were empty. Thanks, Dog.
Half way down the road, some idiot dressed like a renaissance cowboy started hootin' and hollerin' at me to help, so I did. I fought my way through a museum about tea and whatever "jackanapes" are. When I got to the top of the building, I realized he was black. "Are you my son?" I asked. He wasn't. But he was offended.
Long story short, I found a robot suit and fought a dinosaur, and now I'm back in Sanctuary with my not-son, shitty robot, and useless dog. FML.
October 25, 2287
What kind of name is Preston Garvey, and why am I running his errands? "Ooh, go to a settlement. Do map stuff. Blah blah blah." Man's got the personality of wet cardboard in an oil puddle.
Well, I never did find that settlement. What I did find was a garbage dump full of radioactive hamsters. I shot them to pieces and wouldn't ya know it, the guy living there thanked me. Who lives in a hamster dump? That guy, apparently. He seemed happy enough though.
Jesus Christ, I need to find civilization. To the city!
October 26, 2287
MISTAKES.
MISTAKES WERE MADE.
The city is dangerous these days, man! I probably should have taken the useless dog, or at least Harvey Garvey map-maker. I didn't though, because I'm even stupider than them!
Raiders shot at me. Some giant, green luchador chased me into an alley where another green luchador chased me with a bomb strapped to his wrist like it was a goddamn Apple watch. So then, I dove into the water because there was no way they'd chase me…right? WRONG. I had one green guy shooting at me from land, while Senor Fitbit charged across a bridge to chase me.
I swam and swam and swam until I couldn't swim anymore. As soon as I got out of the water, I realized I was sick as hell because rads are a thing now, and began staggering toward some buildings. I was met with three more green guys at my twelve, and three sad-yet-terrifying excuses for dogs at my six. I climbed up some stairs and prayed, and ate a frozen microwavable steak while I cried into the light of dawn.
October 27, 2287
Finally! A sign! "Goodneighbor." Well it sure sounded friendly enough. I walked through the door and was immediately offered insurance. "No thanks, I'm switching to Geico," I said probably. I don't remember. I was radsick and concussed and frankly the guy got stabbed so fast it didn't matter what I said to him.
The stabbee, however, was very memorable, especially in the face-area. It was like someone had left mashed potatoes out in the sun to harden just to see what happened, but they…I dunno…leatherfied? And yet, this guy had mad sex appeal. I needed that mashed potato and I needed him yesterday.
"Blah blah blah Goodneighbor, of the people, for the people," he said, I wasn't really listening. But I played it cool.
"Oh brother," I replied, trying to sound like less of a fanboy.
Mashed potato said, "I can already tell I'm gonna like you," and as of that moment I knew what my purpose was in life: I needed to boil that, mash that, fuck it in a stew. Hancock, you're mine.