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Saturday, November 22, 2025
Dear Miss Chernobyl,
By the time you read this, I'll be pushing up the daisies. 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 an episode of Days of Our Lives to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push you into the sea tied to a large brick, 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 need need need need... well; I can't quite remember. I want to tell you that I think you are so incredibly full of shit that it's a miracle that you haven't exploded into a cascading rivulet of foul smelling excrements yet, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a pedophile, and I am vastly more intelligent than that. You like to sabotage ice hockey matches by repeatedly throwing out extra pucks onto the rink, painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, and feeding rice to sea gulls, 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 each other's pets. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I dig your cold, dead body up again to have sex with you. I'd really like us to become old without ever speaking to, or thinking of, each other ever again, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before you decided to become yourself and get to be so much of a stuck-up prig. Take care of yourself and never forget where you leave the keys. Honestly, those things are are a PAIN to find again.
~ (name is not important as we are all so much more than our names). P.S. Give me five million dollars now, or I'll scratch my own eyeballs out. Just kidding, he he he! I bet you fell for that one. D.S. |