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Wednesday, February 11, 2026
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 on a pilgrimage to Sears to buy "sporting goods" for my weekend adventure with the male cast members of "My Name Is Earl". I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I've misplaced my copy of Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" and I had to improvise. I know this might seem like a total violation of the laws of physics to you, seeing as we made all those plans to trade all our remaining STDs even-steven, 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 to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly. I want to tell you that I think you are my repressed feminine side, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nobody, and I am fucked up for life after 15 years of heavy heroin abuse. You like trying to fit inside sewer drains, filling stuffed animals with ice cream, and arguing with the voices only you can hear over dinner plans, 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 in Mushroom Kingdom. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I throw up. I'd really like us to become jaded, cynical and bitter in our own different ways, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, during my opiate daydream earlier today, after which I woke up to the cold and harsh reality again. Take care of yourself and never forget all the people we've killed together.
~ Your sister. P.S. Now I have a machine gun. Ho ho ho. D.S. |