Wanted: Fed and Alive

I am a fugitive on the run. After months of painstakingly-detailed planning requiring, among other things, a full body tattoo of the blueprint of my cell, I was finally able to break free from my mommy shackles. The whole plan was almost derailed when the guards proved to be more cunning than I had suspected. At one point, they had me pinned beneath them on the floor. I could feel my hope of escape being squashed beneath those sixty pounds of triumphant two-foot tykes.



But then my desire for the freedom to shop and eat all day with my friends took over. Suddenly, I had the strength of 20 mommies which was just enough to topple those captors of mine to the ground.
I dashed toward the door suitcase in hand. I glanced behind me and caught a full blast of the second guard’s rage.


  But soon she realized that the battle was lost, and before I had passed through the door I saw acceptance wash over her little face. She probably went straight to the warden to pin the escape on the other guard—she seems the type to try to weasel herself out of trouble.  


I imagine that they’re organizing a search party as we speak, so my days of freedom are numbered. I will evade them for as long as I can—hopefully just long enough to watch a chick flick and stuff myself with waffles at brunch. Being captured will go down much easier with powdered sugar and syrup—but then again doesn’t everything?