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Wednesday, November 26, 2025
Dear [insert name of recipient here],
By the time you read this, I'll be aiming the crosshair of my bazooka at your crotch. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I don't think I could restrain myself from laughing about what I saw last night. I know this might seem like , well... inevitable, really, to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push the boundaries of human genetics past the point of good taste by procreating, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need to find someone who is male and breathes — and quickly. I want to tell you that I think you are on my long list of middle-rated and easily forgotten ex's, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the flesh and blood scion of the Devil himself, and I am your father. You like imitating 50s actors while shoe shopping, carving CD's into lethal shurikens with which to... kill people, and making faces at babies until they cry, 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 other people. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I practice knife stabbing on mannequin dolls. I'd really like us to become born-again strangers, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, I assume, in some other more cheerful reality among the infinite number of alternate universes out there. Take care of yourself and never forget how much lower your reputation will slip as soon as I publish this on my blog.
~ Lara Bingle. P.S. Can I borrow 5 bucks? D.S. |