Help me...

... I'm not sure how long I have been trapped here.  The days all blend together.  The tally marks on the wall could be my efforts at a primitive calendar, or they could be feverishly obsessive scribblings of the only number that seems to matter anymore.  Fourteen.  Amendment XIV, that is.  Judging by the margins of my casebook, it would appear as though I have descended into madness and am attempting to converse with Justice Scalia.  Seriously, it looks like dialogue in a script.

My eyeballs are bleeding from staring at my laptop and from the increased pressure in my skull as my brain starts to explode.  My hair is more messy than usual because I haven't showered.  There is no world outside my Con Law outline as far as I know.  The boyfriend is ten feet away and still I am chatting with my imaginary Justice-pal.  Though who could resist such charming jowls and such a sneaky demeanor?  Not me apparently.  Maybe tomorrow I'll get to hang out with imaginary Justice Stevens.  I imagine we will chat at length about his bow tie before I beg him to come back...

...someone let me out of here... I'm frightened, and I don't know when if ever I shall be released.  Tell my mom I love her.