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Saturday, February 28, 2026
Dear Cthulhu,
By the time you read this, I'll be converting my house into an undead bastion. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but enough is enough. I've HAD it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane! I know this might seem like , well... inevitable, really, to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Save the Children" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, 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 to plot your murder for another week and I'm set to go. I want to tell you that I think you are like a senile old parrot, 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 an amateur weightlifter. You like other men, carving CD's into lethal shurikens with which to... kill people, and filling guinea pigs with helium, 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 when Hell freezes over. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my house is in need of some serious cleaning up. I'd really like us to become permanently estranged, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, up until the effect of the morphine wore off. Take care of yourself and never forget our honeymoon in Harvard University.
~ Norman Bates. P.S. That was an Amanita virosa (destroying angel) you ate yesterday, not a button mushroom as I thought. Oops, I guess I'm really bad with mushrooms... D.S. |