Parsing The Martha Hall Findlay Apology

Dear Justin,

 My campaign for LPoC leader is so fucking doomed right now that its pathetic, and  afterwards I'll have nothing to show for it but debt.  Debt, debt, and more debt. And just when I'd managed to shovel my way out the first time, too.  Not that you'd know about what that's like, you pampered little...  

But anyway.  I beg you to forgive my harsh words of the other night, and also to consider me for a position in some future government.  A small thing.  Minister of String, Cans and Jars might be suitable.  Or a Senate appointment. Now that would be sweet.  I could sell my principal residence and pay off the angriest of my money men.  I would eat for free in the Senate cafeteria, and sleep in my seat, the way the other Senators do.  Otherwise I fear that when you next see me I will be pushing a shopping cart up Yonge Street, speaking into a toy telephone and living in a cardboard box under a bridge somewhere. 

Again, I cannot tell you how very, very... very sorry I am, Justin.  Sweet, beautiful, glorious Justin.  If you can see your way clear to forgiving this silly gal, and offering me some small but decently compensated post in what will surely be  a reign of historic greatness, I would be eternally grateful.

Yours,
Martha Hall Findlay