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Friday, January 16, 2026
Dear disembodied head,
By the time you read this, I'll be hiding under your bed with a butcher's knife. 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 an omitted chapter from Dante´s Divine Comedy to you, seeing as we made all those plans to blow up the moon together, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but I thought that since I've now finally managed to track you down, it might be good manners to at least write one last good-bye letter to you before I kill you. 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 ...more than passable, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are an epic fail, and I am Republican. You like bathing in gasoline, contemplating suicide (but always being so damned indecisive), and sewing extra limbs onto your body, 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 each other as soon as possible, since the Internet connection on my computer isn't working, and I figured I could browse through your computer during our "date". But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "anorexia", "bulimia" and/or "starvation" in my presence. I'd really like us to become slowly solidified into a kind of buttery jell, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, up until the effect of the morphine wore off. Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the Infinity Gauntlet and is thus the supreme being of this universe.
~ Concerned Citizen. P.S. This is what the alphabet would look like without Q and R. D.S. |