 |
  |
 |
Monday, November 24, 2025
Dear
By the time you read this, I'll be staring at the sun with the intent of becoming blind. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your feelings are inherently less valuable than mine. I know this might seem like a letter of indulgence to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Amnesty International" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, 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 sex, and for longer than the 3 minutes and 2 inches you're able to provide... or was it the other way around? Anyway... I want to tell you that I think you are my repressed feminine side, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are scared of sheep, and I am Republican. You like toying with mousetraps, juggling chainsaws, and arguing with the voices only you can hear over dinner plans, 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 a six-legged rhinoceros flies by. I'd really like us to become engaged in a brutal medieval fight to the death with the good ole' armour, horse and lances (but only if I get to win), if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, while we were three thousand miles away from each other. Take care of yourself and never forget that the xenomorph implanted in your chest is going to erupt and kill you violently within two hours.
|