Day 12 of nugget held hostage:
Thus far my jailor has been tolerable. He fed me when I cry, and changes me when I pee, but has been completely impervious to my protests of wiggling under my blanket to hide.
The other day, I woke up in the night to see him standing over me with a moonlight grin. It was comforting, but only slightly from my angle.
Reinforcements came and distracted him, but Grandma Sassy was not able to keep him from mumbled something incoherent about leaves, rakes and meddling kids as he put me down for the night.
I think he is losing it.
His wits are wearing down with every midnight hunger pang that I can muster, but he is taking to competing with Grandma Sassy for how much food I can be coerced into eating.
He keeps feeding me avocado. Mixed with oatmeal. It’s inhumane.
Laughing hysterically to a mirror he said something about showering, but when he finally did, the fuzzy bear man I call Dad only looked like a mussed up Q-tip.
His visage has become frightful.
He said I was “so cute [he] could just east [me] up.”
Mom. Please come home. Beer and cupcake supplies are dwindling, I fear I am next.