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Dear Passing Fancy,
By the time you read this, I'll be howling strangely in the streaming moonlight. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but seeing you without makeup made homosexuality suddenly seem very feasible to me. I know this might seem like an omitted chapter from Dante´s Divine Comedy 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 — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter. 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 not as strong in the Force as the Emperor thought, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the demi-duchess of Kumswalla, and I am Republican. You like sucking off the black guy that mows your lawn, putting things on springs, and smelling other people's fingers, 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 virtualized Sim replicas of each other. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I've poured rohypnol into your cocktail again. I'd really like us to become people that ignore each other in public, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, pretending we're screwing someone else. Take care of yourself and never forget where you leave the keys. Honestly, those things are are a PAIN to find again.
~ Quinn the eskimo. |