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Sunday, November 23, 2025
Dear insignificant other,
By the time you read this, I'll be telling our children why your inches mattered that much. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but time is money, and according to your most current bank statement you have insufficient funds to purchase additional time credits with me. I know this might seem like an Uncyclopedia in-joke to you, seeing as we made all those plans to buy a million rubber ducks for all our retirement savings, 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 to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly. 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 one of Evil Bert's sinister henchmen, and I am a Mousketeer. You like forcing naughty school children to read the Necronomicon, lassoing people on subway cars, and you cannot lie, the other brothers can't deny, when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in your face you get sprung, 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 in Hell, after killing each other. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I watch Aphex Twin's music video for Windowlicker and the "hot babe" turns around. I'd really like us to become people that pretend they never dated, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, I assume, in some other more cheerful reality among the infinite number of alternate universes out there. Take care of yourself and never forget that despite all the nonsense I've written in this letter, I'm still going to track you down and kill you.
~ George Philipp Telemann. P.S. You are the one billionth person to read this letter. Click here to receive your prize! D.S. |
