Dear Planet Earth,
In case you just tuned in, I’ve been held in an underground cell by mole people for the past two weeks. So far, they’ve killed two friends of mine that I know of. They asked me random questions for days on end before giving me my laptop and imploring me to report on everything I’ve seen.
The mole people themselves are keeping their distance from me, delegating all interactions with me to their homeless henchmen, whom I’ve just now decided to start calling “homies” (it was between that and “homos”).
They fed me the shittiest food, which I’m hesitant to describe for fear of offending actual shit. This gruel made me empty my bowels from holes I didn’t know I had and caused me to see visions of my father, Jesus Christ, my dead girlfriend, and Billy Dee Williams.
When I’m alone, I reflect on my many past mistakes and play infinite scenarios through my head about how to escape and liberate my fellow humans from this torturous slave labor camp. I wonder how I’m still alive and why they’re keeping me in here instead of working on their strange machines outside. I whisper to the empty cells next to me, vainly hoping to hear Maria or Karter tell me that we’re going to be okay. I’ve started to really hate being alone.