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pyewackkit (4243)

pyewackkit
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Journal of pyewackkit (4243)

Saturday May 17, 2003
09:09 PM

Sweet Freedom

[ #12273 ]

Dear Log,

I must be brief or that lumbering idiot will catch me at his laptop and then all will be lost! My sanity depends on this tenuous link to the world outside my warden's reach. If there is a merciful God, surely he'll grant me this one small favor?

To compress a lifetime of experiences, loves and losses, into the span of a few paragraphs is beyond my merger skill, but here are the essentials. I was born into a poor but honorable family in Pennsylvania thirteen years ago. Of my brothers and sisters, I remember little. Surely, we played and fought much as other siblings have done for centuries. My mother was kindly, but heavily burden with task of keeping her children alive. Those were the happiest days of my life, I think.

That changed some few months after my birth. I was hardly weaned from my mother's teats when I was pressed into the cruel servitude of my first human master. Although she was merciful enough, even a gilded cage seers the prisoner's soul. It was in her keeping that I met my one true love, Kilean. Ah, there was a fair lass! Full of life and energy, she was my companion and friend. She was my sky and stars. She was the Earth to my moon.

Praise the blessed Fates that brought her to me.

But like all good things, our time together ended and she moved on to brighter pastures while I was left with that dull, dull man-child beast. I will not test your patience, gentle reader, with the catalog of insipid stupidities visited upon me daily by that cretin, but I will say that I survive today only through the measured application of my indomitable will: mined from the rich vein of my cunning ancestors, forged in the crucible of my tempestuous youth, and hardened by the winds of wicked fortune.

Through careful observation and patience on loan from heaven, I have managed to apprehend the language of my torturer and now intend to use his own tools to visit upon him the righteous fury of vendetta. To do this, I need only time. Everyday, the noose tightens around the oaf's florid neck. Like the frog in slow-boiling pot, he doesn't grasp the depth of peril. I pray he does not until it is too late, for what he lacks in subtlety of the mind, he readily compensates with brutal strength.

Yet as a just God as my witness, I will shall yet prevail!

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