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Wednesday, November 12, 2025
Dear pointless entity,
By the time you read this, I'll be on a pilgrimage to Sears to buy "sporting goods" for my weekend adventure with the male cast members of "My Name Is Earl". I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like I'm not going to kill you on Saturday anyway. I know this might seem like , well... inevitable, really, to you, seeing as we made all those plans to blow up the moon together, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. I just need need need need need... well; I can't quite remember. I want to tell you that I think you are my repressed masculine side, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a satanist,
and I am that lonely obsessed stalker who refused to just settle for your autograph.
You like flaying lambs, insult sword fighting, and watching DaxFlame on YouTube while singing "Lucy in the Sky of Diamonds",
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 on different continents.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need to I'd really like us to become old without ever speaking to, or thinking of, each other ever again, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, way back in the 60's during Woodstock. Take care of yourself and never forget to brush your teeth. Oh wait; you don't have any, you toothless old fuck.
~ Anonymous. |