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Hello? Hello?! Is anyone out there? Oh my God, I managed to pick the lock and sneak into the room where they keep the computer, so I logged into MySpace and I hope somebody out there reads this and sends help. I was hired as a nurse for the comatose Victoria Newman - whom you may know got bonked on the head with a chunk of Styrofoam - when she returned home after her tadpole fetus was yanked out and the hospital grew tired of her depressing, whiny entourage of divas.

I'd heard of Victor Newman - who hasn't, around here? And I was flat broke after my unemployed screenwriter boyfriend liquidated our checking account when he discovered his new favorite hobby of gambling at the Ho-Chunk Indian Casino near the Wisconsin Dells. He ran off with a cheap little blonde he met while spending our rent money on blackjack, the talent-less hacky bastard. Anyway, to make a short story long, I saw this ad in the Genoa City News for a live-in nurse and when I recognized the address, I had dollar signs spinning in my eyes. Who wouldn't?

I was interviewed by the Newmans, and the position sounded too good to be true, which, you know what that means. I swear I am not a stupid person, but I guess I should have seen it coming when Master and Mistress Newman - yeah, they make me call them that - shoved a contract the size of a Russian novel at me across the table with around a hundred and forty places to sign. I should have read the fine print, I know, but it was practically microscopic and I was itching to get that fat check in my hand.

If anybody is reading this, please call the police! They have me locked in that musty old bedroom with Victoria and they leave a bowl of kibble for me twice a day, while downstairs, Zapato gets prime rib for dinner. And I have to pee and go Number Two in a bucket which is later collected by the invisible Miguel. I have personally never seen Miguel, but I'm assured that he exists. You can't imagine how humiliated and terrified I am. I don't have a bed. I have to sleep on an old stained towel on the floor. I think it must be one of Victor's gym towels because it smells like Old Man Sweat and appears to have mustache hairs on it. At least I hope to God they're mustache hairs.

At first I thought it would be neat to care for Victoria. I mean, what a cake job, right? I didn't have to change any feeding tubes or IVs since she doesn't have any. Mostly I was supposed to just brush her hair and play tapes of the music her fiancé - whom I gather is a lesbian, not that there's anything wrong with that - made for her.

But then I tried to leave the room the first day to go get myself a bottle of water, and realized I was trapped. I pounded on the door, thinking it must be accidentally locked, and I heard Victor's footsteps come thudding down the hallway. I could tell he was standing right outside the door, and I pleaded with him to let me out. He mumbled something about his daughter's constant care and then bellowed "ARE YOU KIDDING ME OR WHAT? If I catch you making a racket like that again, you'll have a hot date with the wood chipper out back - YOU GOT THAT?!"

I called for Nikki - I mean, "Mistress" - and she eventually came, but told me I should learn to read contracts instead of whining like a kicked puppy. I slipped my fingers under the door and tried to grab her pant leg, but she promptly ground her stiletto heel into my knuckles. She called me an ungrateful piece of trailer trash and demanded to know if I could comprehend how many people would give their right arm to have a job inside the Newman Ponderosa Ranch. She then threatened to have me replaced with a Mexican who would do the job for seventy-five cents a day and a handful of shiny beads, and who would be grateful for the kibble. "It's premium kibble, you piece of shit," Nikki told me. "We get it at the Whole Foods in Madison."

Oh shit. I have to go now - I see headlights coming.

These people are insane, you guys! Oh, somebody please read this and call the cops. Also, I'm kind of lonely since my boyfriend left me. Can I add you to my MySpace friends?

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