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Friday, November 28, 2025
Dear Sex toy,
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 your voice is so grating that another few phone calls from you would have left me deaf for life by the end of the year. I know this might seem like a very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to continue grossing out teens and old people with our cherished "skinny dip and snogging" expeditions to the fountain in the public square, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need more time alone. No... More time away from you. All of it, really. Yeah. That's what I mean to say. I want to tell you that I think you are evil incarnate, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are an atheist, and I am not you. You like imitating 50s actors while shoe shopping, painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, and sewing extra limbs onto your body, 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 on different continents. 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 partners in crime and steal candy from helpless little kids, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, unless I was just dreaming. Take care of yourself and never forget the hard work of the ten million chained up monkeys with typewriters that wrote this letter.
~ A million monkeys hitting randomly on typewriters. |