Once again, I beg you. Send help. Or wine. Chocolate is also accepted.
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…
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