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Wednesday, February 18, 2026
Dear Archchancellor,
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 needs are inherently less important than mine. I know this might seem like an episode of Days of Our Lives to you, seeing as we made all those plans to cannibalize your family, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain intoxicated. I just need to find someone who is male and breathes — and quickly. I want to tell you that I think you are a Terminator sent from the future to kill me, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the only one in the world who actually thinks Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer are funny, and I am a schoolgirl. You like using magnifying glasses to kill aunts, recording your own toilet visits and sharing it on file sharing networks as MP3's wrongfully named as famous songs, and gas tungsten arc welding, 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 other planets. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I make additions to my personal list of people I intend to kill. I'd really like us to become partners in crime and rob helpless old ladies of their retirement savings, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, up until the effect of the morphine wore off. Take care of yourself and never forget that you are now statistically 50% less likely to ever find a lasting and fulfilling relationship during your lifetime.
~ Tiddles. P.S. Give me five million dollars now, or I'll scratch my own eyeballs out. Just kidding, he he he! I bet you fell for that one. D.S. |