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Monday, February 9, 2026
Dear Poster Child for the Criminally Insane,
By the time you read this, I'll be stalked by that creep who calls himself Googlebot. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I'm not getting any younger, and you're not getting any richer. I know this might seem like a sudden change to you, seeing as we made all those plans to spend at least more than two hours together, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need more time alone. No... More time away from you. All of it, really. Yeah. That's what I mean to say. I want to tell you that I think you are perfectly looking, at least according to Neptunian standards, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are so fat that Jupiter orbits around you sometimes, and I am fucked up for life after 15 years of heavy heroin abuse. You like forcing naughty school children to read the Necronomicon, recording your own toilet visits and sharing it on file sharing networks as MP3's wrongfully named as famous songs, and filling guinea pigs with helium, 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 people without AIDS. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "seven and half", "inch" and "cock" in my presence. I'd really like us to become acquaintances, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, or so we'll pretend. Take care of yourself and never forget that I'm no longer in a coma.
~ Dalai Llama. |