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Thursday, September 18, 2025
Dear "Mr. It was only a dream" (as my psychiatrist insists I refer to you these days) ,
By the time you read this, I'll be tied to a score of helium balloons, thinking about some non-fatal way of coming back down to earth safely (help, please?). 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 karmic kannibalism to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Red Cross" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, 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 a dirty magazine, my right hand and a toilet paper — that's all it takes, really. I want to tell you that I think you are on my long list of middle-rated and easily forgotten ex's, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are under surveillance by the CIA, and I am into bodysurfing. You like traveling to other cities and showing up uninvited at total strangers' birthday parties, pretending to be Captain America, and you cannot lie, the other brothers can't deny, when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in your face you get sprung, 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 other species. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I walk past the ape cages at the zoo. I'd really like us to become theatrical actors in a Romeo & Juliet play, except we'll kill ourselves for real in the end just for the sake of realism, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, but then I woke up and realised that it was just a dream. Take care of yourself and never forget to double-bag "Uncle Willy" from now on.
~ Norman Bates. |