Sad Baby Poisoned

Dear Diary,

Not satisfied with the results of their external tortures, the authorities have resorted to torturing me from the inside out. I have been poisoned.  The authority called Mom seems to be leading the charge. Early last week, she maliciously ate cheese and sour cream.  Had I known, I would have demanded formula.  Dairy stops me up like a size 3 pacifier in a newborn's mouth. Just when I thought she was honestly remorseful ( and that it wasn't another diabolical mind-game)- she reversed her tactics.  She claims that the Authority called Daddy is the responsible party since he planned the dinner. Whichever of those devils is responsible- they must have known how effectively fish oil would transfer to my milk.  My only solace in this most recent atrocity is in knowing that I turned the tables on them- left them speechless and scrambling.  The authorities may confuse me, and confound my body to it's core, but I will not quietly suffer the indignity of sitting in my overly dirty diaper.  I will kick, scream and fling poo.  The authorities got more than they bargained for as I not only soiled the diaper, but also my onesie, my blanket, the car seat, the changing mat, mom's shirt, dad's seat, and, regrettably, my left sock (I had already disposed of the right sock).  If they thought the humiliation of riding home naked would cure my disquiet then they were wrong- It only steels my commitment to resist.

This week's Priorities:
Maintain strength- keep fighting.

Develop a strategy to eliminate the parasites (more on that in my next entry)



One last note.  I very much enjoyed answering JS's questions about bottle feeding, however, our sad lawyers think we should remind you that Sad Baby is merely 6 weeks old and is not in any way qualified, verified, or otherwise empirically knowledgeable of any subject beyond human cruelty.  Answers to your questions, and advice from sad baby is strictly for entertainment purposes and by submitting your question you thereby exempt Sad Baby from blame, indemnification, or scrutiny resulting from responses to your inquiry.  Hasn't she been through enough?

Sad Baby Feature: Sad Baby takes your Questions

Today's question is from JS in Kentucky,

Dear Sad Baby,
My 10 mos old son refuses to take a bottle.  Can you give us any insight or help?
JS

Sad Baby Says:

Thanks so much for your letter JS.  It is quite lonely being the only human prisoner here, so I welcome all correspondence.

The best reason to refuse a bottle is willful disobedience.  I fully condone your son's show of solidarity with my plight and I hope he can stay strong.That being said, I myself drink from a bottle, but I do have certain prerequisites which must be met to ensure that I will comply with forced feeding.  I will not take a bottle from my mom- that's ridiculous.She is always awake and full of perfectly good milk. Only the authority called daddy gets away with feeding me a bottle. Second, it must be dark.  It is a personal defeat to be forced to drink from an inanimate vessel, and I wouldn't want anyone to see me in the act.Thirdly, I don't care how cold it is, but it cannot be too warm.  The interaction is already unauthentic, laboring to get the temperature to reflect mothers milk just reinforces the synthetic pretense.

I hope that helps.

Yours in constant sorrow
-Sad Baby

Return of Sad Baby Diary

Dear Diary,

I'm sorry I have not been able to make an entry these past few weeks but waterboarding takes a lot out of a girl. The authorities have made good on their promise to nearly drown me every two days.  The torment begins at my toes as they methodically work their way up.  First stripping me naked, spraying me down, then dripping sponges on me, and finally holding my head under the relentless stream until I'm sure I can no longer breathe. Once the water torture is complete, I am vigorously abraded by some tool called the towel- and usually my head is covered with a hood so as to limit my vision.

What other horrors have occurred since I last journaled?

Earlier this month, the compound was under attack for what seemed like days.  I  briefly considered that forces may be rallying to my rescue, but on July 4th the intermittent explosions and flashes built up into a terrible crescendo and suddenly stopped.  If it was a recovery mission, than I hope my would-be rescuers died quickly, as it would certainly be a more a agreeable end than detention in this house of horrors.

The batteries are dying in my bouncer.  The Authorities are well aware of their imminent failure, but refuse to change them.  The bouncer has been my one true joy since arriving here, but soon I may have to go without it's soothing vibration and pleasant 8 bit song stylings. I think the authorities are taking great pleasure in watching my elation fade to apprehension- Will today be the day that my bouncer gives out?

The authority called Daddy has been leading fewer of the interrogation sessions, as he has devoted more of his time to something called work, I don't know what it is, but I am grateful for the respite from his abuse. He is, though, force feeding me on a more regular basis and has developed an elaborate method of torture called burping.

My retaliation seems more futile each day, but I am continuing to fight when I am able.  My strength is improving, and with enough kicks and contortions, I am able to stave off diaper changes for about 60 seconds; I have nearly escaped the changing table with a quick lateral roll.

I continue to urinate as soon as the diaper has been removed.

I have developed my own protocol for creating psychological confusion in the Authorities.  WHile their actions prove them to be cold hearted and pure evil, they constantly try to connect with me personally. Now when they engage me, I smile, open my eyes wide- And fart.