Dammit, Preston. How many times do I have to tell that kid to pick up after himself? He’s left those little toy bricks all over the carpet. I know what the cliche is, and I haven’t stepped on them. Oh, no. It’s much worse than that. I tripped over a toy truck he left on the ground and fell on the bricks face first. If that sounds painful, you don’t know the half of it. Turns out the whole thing was a trap. Preston and Amelia, my two darling children, ran into the living room and tied me up with rope, then started singing about how they were going to sacrifice me to the Flying Spaghetti Monster.
Great, just what I had in mind for the rest of my day. I’ve been able to reach my phone in my pocket, so I’m typing this post as a sort of SOS. If you’re reading this, get my damn kids off me. I had so much to do today! When I told them I had to deal with the house’s blocked drains, Preston told me they don’t care. The sacrifice will continue. That’s fantastic. I’ve always wanted to be sacrificed.
I’ve tried calling my partner but it won’t go through. Damn that soundproof writing room of his! My shouts won’t get in. I’ll have to find my own way out of this. Maybe I can crawl over to the toy army knife Preston got for this birthday? If I can at least loosen the rope, I should be able to get away and arrange for a blocked drain service. Melbourne mothers are always complaining about how their kids try to ritualistically sacrifice them to their pagan deities, but I thought it was all made up for a laugh. Looks like I’ve learned the truth the hard way!
Maybe I shouldn’t have taken them to martial arts lessons, then refused to learn anything myself. They’re vastly superior in combat to me, and they’re only five and six years old. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of them, but I also hope I can escape before they start roasting me over a fire for dinner!