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Tuesday, February 10, 2026
Dear Loser,
By the time you read this, I'll be burnt at stake by the Spanish Inquisition. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but enough is enough. I've HAD it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane! I know this might seem like a sudden turn of events to you, seeing as we made all those plans to trade all our remaining STDs even-steven, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but I've been stuck in this nightmare world for months now, and writing this letter is my last chance of a wake up call. I just need to go to the moon or a gay retared place. I want to tell you that I think you are ...exceedingly punctual, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a card-carrying member of the Hair Club for Men, and I am a Mousketeer. You like traveling to other cities and showing up uninvited at total strangers' birthday parties, peeling watermelons, and watching animal porn, 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 Friday and then try to kill each other through strangulation (or with knives) just for fun. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "obesity", "fat" and/or "pig" in my presence. I'd really like us to become snobbish self-styled intellectuals who always change the subject to 19th century Russian literature in order to look smart everytime a third person approaches, 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 it's going to take more than a restraining order to keep me away from our children — they are mine too and I will not be denied them.
~ Your Siamese twin. P.S. I accidentally dropped your cat into a bowl of hydrochloric acid yesterday. I'm afraid she got sent to the cornfield. Sorry about that. D.S. |