Please help me. All I want is my freedom, if only for one measly hour. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. I imagine even convicted felons currently residing in Stateville Penitentiary get an hour out in the yard to lift weights and plot their grand escape during a staged prison riot. In comparison, my transgressions barely register. I’ll confess that I do know, and frequently use, a plethora of exotically glorious foul language, but what girl doesn’t? Surely an occasional f-bomb doesn’t warrant such extreme chastisement.
Not only have I been cruelly ensnared in a dragnet of stupefaction, but an insidious and terrible campaign of psychological warfare has been instigated and is even now slowly and unequivocally smothering my sanity. My mind is being assaulted by horrific domestic propaganda in the same way climate change is eroding the Maldives but without the glimmer of hope provided by the Mulee Aage solar panels. Sleep deprivation, emotional blackmail, noise and social solitary confinement have taken their toll.
I don’t know how much longer I can resist. You must hurry.
Do not attempt to appeal to my captors for clemency. They are callous, unappeasable and absolutely reasonless. They are cunning and powerful, using their formidable ninja skills to utilize terrain, weather and even my own intrinsic sense of responsibility and morality against me. They are relentless, unstoppable. They are my children and they are ruthless.
As the sand slips gracefully through the hourglass ushering in my inevitable downfall, I beg you, please release me from this torment, if only for an hour. Please, before I am lost to the mists of parental oblivion. Please.
I have to go now. They want a snack. Save me. Hurry.