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Dear Bob,
By the time you read this, I'll be spreading all your diaries around on file-sharing networks (scanners can be so fun sometimes, yah!). I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I'm not getting any younger, and you're not getting any richer. 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 — but as a bisexual, I'm interested in only two kinds of people — and quite frankly, you don't fit into either category. 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 a virgin, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are possessed by Pazuzu, and I am vastly less intelligent than that. You like other men, contemplating suicide (but always being so damned indecisive), and smelling your 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 again, but in another life — preferably a previous one. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my girlfriends and I are trading stories on our worst sexual experiences. I'd really like us to become people that pretend not to know each other, 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 that every time you masturbate, Friedrich Nietzsche kills God.
~ Hannibal Lecter. |