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Dear Azathoth,
By the time you read this, I'll be you. 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 sudden change to you, seeing as we made all those plans to adopt a child from a third world country for media publicity, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly. I want to tell you that I think you are exceptionally undistinguished, in a boring, non-threatening way, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the flesh and blood scion of the Devil himself, and I am scared of donuts. You like having sex in dumpsters, pushing unsuspecting tourists off from very high places and watching them fall, and recommending suicide as the only viable cure for hiccups, 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 I need someone to help me move. 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, even if they only lasted a few microseconds. Take care of yourself and never forget that each day of your life may be the last as long as I'm around.
~ Your Siamese twin. 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. |