 |
  |
 |
Wednesday, December 24, 2025
Dear Passing Fancy,
By the time you read this, I'll be relocated to a secret tropical hide-out, drinking fruit drinks and living a life in luxury for the money I drained from your bank account this morning (so long sucker, HAHAHAHAHA!!!). I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but this world simply isn't big enough for the both of us. I know this might seem like a disappointing turn for the worse to you, seeing as we made all those plans to slowly cannibalize each other one bite at a time, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but as a bisexual, I'm interested in only two kinds of people — and quite frankly, you don't fit into either category. I just need need need need need... well; I can't quite remember. I want to tell you that I think you are Jimbo, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a pederast, and I am disappointed. You like having sex in dumpsters, tripping on your own shoelaces on purpose just so you can blame the Jews for it, and releasing frogs into preschool kitchens, 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 our respective parents, if only so we can feel unfaithful again. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I wiretap your telephone calls. I'd really like us to become jaded, cynical and bitter in our own different ways, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least when we turned the clock forward a few hours and then pretended that something nice happened during that time (whereas nothing at all happened, really). Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the sniper rifle, and I know how to use it.
~ Your very dissatisfied penis. |