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Dear future amnesiac self,
By the time you read this, I'll be selling my soul on eBay for 10,000 dollars. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your needs are inherently less important than mine. I know this might seem like a cowardly way of telling you that I ran over your mom with fatal outcome just 10 minutes ago to you, seeing as we made all those plans to burn down our neighbor's house, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but another officer is at the door - I'll write more in an hour. I just need nails, matches and a voodoo doll of you. I want to tell you that I think you are a Cylon imposter, 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 worried about it. You like attacking clergymen, scratching yourself publicly, and finding out a random victim's e-mail address and subscribe it to every advertisement letter you can find, 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 but only so I'll get another shot at killing your for real. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I forget what your name was. I'd really like us to become slowly solidified into a kind of buttery jell, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, nah; I'm just screwing with you. Take care of yourself and never forget where you leave the keys. Honestly, those things are are a PAIN to find again.
~ A million monkeys hitting randomly on typewriters. P.S. They're coming to take me away! D.S. |