Dear Planet Earth,
I was able to catch a couple winks last night (that means “sleep” for all you Bieber-lovin’ toddlers in tiaras out there) and have some nightmares that don’t involve running for my life from technologically advanced mole people.
My on-again off-again strictly platonic male friend Dr. Eimer revealed to me that General Talpa and a small squad have been scouting the surrounding area. He seems pretty convinced that they’re not ditching us slow-moving civilians, and I don’t have any choice but to agree. I do have to wonder though, with about 100 of us and only enough food and water to fit three trucks, how much borrowed time are we running on (that means “period of uncertainty during which the inevitable consequences of a current situation are postponed or avoided” for all you Tweeting E-Trade babies out there).
But I need to stop thinking the worst and focus on my more immediate concerns. My leg is still killing me. I can’t sleep for more than six hours. And I badly need to shave. I grow facial hair at an incredibly slow rate, even by seventeen year old boy standards, but I currently look like a mugshot for Gary Busey’s stalker.