 |
  |
 |
Dear Santa,
By the time you read this, I'll be hitchhiking to Wal-Mart to choose your replacement. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but my sadistic urges have become completely uncontrollable, and I don’t think I can see you again without having to torture you. I know this might seem like a cowardly way of telling you that I ran over your mom with fatal outcome just 10 minutes ago to you, seeing as we made all those plans to grow old, fat and senile together, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain high. I just need more length from you than I'm getting, and let's face it — you're shrinking with age. I want to tell you that I think you are like an impudent grain of sand, warring against a raging ocean, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nobody, and I am suicidal. You like toying with mousetraps, pushing unsuspecting tourists off from very high places and watching them fall, 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 for the hell of it. It's not like we don't both have herpes. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I go on another nightly tour to quench my vampiric thirst for human blood. I'd really like us to become an African-American comedy duo, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before we ended up in Hell together. Take care of yourself and never forget our honeymoon on Mount Everest.
~ Your sister. P.S. They're coming to take me away! D.S. |