My most anxious and preputial of readers, doubtless you have been worrying about my safety these last months. You were right to fret for me and I thank you for your compassion. I am having a terrible, miserable, episodic time of it in the Dundee Home for the Irretrievably Demented. Furthermore, I have no means of venting my overburdened spleen as I am forbidden from accessing the internet cobweb. It is only through weeks of planning, devious plotting, and some measure of degrading bribery, that I have managed to persuade the two hospital wardens, Perret and Sembadel, to allow me access to Dr. Biron's personal computer for just 20 short minutes. Such are the hardships I now endure. My time is limited so I must be succinct in my discourse and refrain from adopting my habital digressional mode of narration. Thus I must humbly beg my frustrated readership to weather the achingly sparse and underwritten prose you see before you now.
A grim update: it has become increasingly obvious to me that this carceral nursing home in which I am confined is, in reality, a sweat shop. We inmates are utilized as unpaid labour and are daily put to work crafting assorted luxury goods such as wickerwork, ribbon-weaving, Fuzzy-Felt collages, macaroni greeting cards, and gaudy baubles made with overmuch glitter. These are taken from us and presumably sold to wealthy merchants for vast profit, who in turn sell them to the bourgeoisie for even vaster profits. The inmates receive not one milky monetary drop from the plump udders of this cash cow.
I am languishing and dwindling in this ominous place. It has all the usual bleak accoutrements of mental institutions: white walls, nurses, restraining buckles, and a large mute Red Indian. The daily diet for all inmates is pemmican, carob, and medical gauze, all in tiny portions. As you will no doubt have observed, this diet is horribly lacking in the essential staple, bifidus digestivum, so we all suffer terribly. Further to this, we are daily pumped full of drugs which render the taker immobile and comatose. So at least it is not all bad here.
However, for the last week the wardens have devised fresh tortures for us, bringing in teams of small children festively bedecked with Father Christmas hats and tinsel, who sing carols to us in a manner that is little short of appalling. Their cacophonous screeching complete, they pass out shop-bought, budget mince pies then file out. I fear I may perish in this godforsaken place.
Thankfully, my plan to escape is nearing fruition...but, alas, I must leave that for another day because the wardens have returned to remove me from the computer. Farewell.