Letter I will Never Send to My Phd Adviser
It is with a heavy heart that I pen you this missive.
Winter has fallen; the children are hungry and Papa has been dismissed from the gruel factory. Henrik and I lodge with the sheep each night—they are our only reliable source of warmth since depleting our stores of firewood.
Each evening when I hear the sleighbells signalling the postman, my heart sings with hope—perhaps he has brought me one of your much-needed letters! But alas, I am to be forever disappointed! Why do you not respond to my pleas for help? Perhaps I was too needy in wishing for a reply at all?
Mayhap you did not care for the chocolates I sent you, or the half-cow I slaughtered for your ice-house?
Please respond to my letters. We are in desperate need of amnesty. Send oxen, dyptheria medication, warm furs, and 50 lbs potatoes.
Or, failing that, advice on how best to finish my dissertation.
It is my dearest wish to exit phd hell, and you are both my jailer and parole board.
University of Lies