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Dear you with that unpronouncable name,
By the time you read this, I'll be eaten alive by Jabba the Hutt. 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 disappointing turn for the worse to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push you into the sea tied to a large brick, 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 need need need need... well; I can't quite remember. I want to tell you that I think you are really quite adequate, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are committed, literally, and I am suicidal. You like attacking clergymen, carving CD's into lethal shurikens with which to... kill people, and accusing comatose patients of laziness, 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 someone mentions the words "anorexia", "bulimia" and/or "starvation" 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, at least during those many hours of drug and alcohol induced unconsciousness. Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you wish for coal as a Christmas present, you'll get porridge instead.
~ George Philipp Telemann. P.S. It was me who assassinated J.F. Kennedy. D.S. |