 |
  |
 |
Wednesday, February 11, 2026
Dear psychiatrist,
By the time you read this, I'll be eating your liver with fava beans and a nice chianti. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like I'm not going to kill you on Saturday anyway. 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 visit your grandparents to give them a big ol' kiss, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. I just need more space. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan is sounding pretty nice to me right now. I want to tell you that I think you are going to find out that the anthrax I've contaminated this letter with might be quite unpleasant once it's started to take hold on you, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are an agnostic, and I am scared of donuts. You like toying with mousetraps, peeling watermelons, and gas tungsten arc welding, 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 Friday and then try to kill each other through strangulation (or with knives) just for fun. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "two", "inch" and "penis" in my presence. I'd really like us to become partners in crime and rob helpless old ladies of their retirement savings, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, I think. Take care of yourself and never forget our honeymoon on Mount Rushmore.
~ Alan Smithee. P.S. Do you remember that VHS tape I showed you yesterday, the one with a towel-headed man and a well? If so, you now have six days left to live. Life's a bitch, ain't she? D.S. |