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Saturday, February 21, 2026
Dear all-boobs-and-no-brains,
By the time you read this, I'll be eaten alive by Jabba the Hutt. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but to be honest, I'd be more sorry if I were to stay. I know this might seem like a sudden change 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 — it's just a shame I waited so long to do it, and wasted so much of my valuable time. I just need to engage in homicidal behavior on a massive scale. It can not be corrected but I have no other way to fulfill my needs. I want to tell you that I think you are in need of some serious physical therapy against your hideous acid breath, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the demi-duchess of Kumswalla, and I am into bodysurfing. You like projectile vomiting, peeling watermelons, 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 when Hell freezes over. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever a six-legged rhinoceros flies by. I'd really like us to become permanently estranged, 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 that time when I showed everyone a picture of your penis. That was funny.
~ Norman Bates. P.S. They're coming to take me away! D.S. |