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Thursday, November 13, 2025
Dear tomorrow's headlines,
By the time you read this, I'll be trying to cut off my own legs with a toothbrush (just to see if it can be done). I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your feelings are inherently less valuable than mine. I know this might seem like a Wikipedia article to you, seeing as we made all those plans to run the 3rd marathon around the world together (tied together, that is), but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule. I want to tell you that I think you are a virgin, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a blathering windbag who needs a nice big cup of shut the fuck up, and I am on my own plane of psychological existence. You like wearing my knickers on your noggin, playing with your pasta meals until it looks like the Flying Spaghetti Monster before proceeding to eat it, and nibbling off wires to public computers at libraries and Internet cafés, and I'm just not sure I can ever share your joy in those things. How can two people so different ever make it for the long haul? I think we should date virtualized Sim replicas of each other. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me to define the word "pointless". I'd really like us to become that kind of insufferable cinemagoers who've read the plot in advance and sit and yell out spoilers throughout the film to the annoyance of everyone else, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before we ended up in Hell together. Take care of yourself and never forget that the xenomorph implanted in your chest is going to erupt and kill you violently within two hours.
~ George Philipp Telemann. P.S. You're fired! D.S. |