 |
  |
 |
Dear Uncle Sam,
By the time you read this, I'll be fatally assaulted by rabid squirrels. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but attorneys cost money, and I'm eating for two now, if you know what I mean. I know this might seem like an episode of Days of Our Lives to you, seeing as we made all those plans to sink the British isles, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. I just need a bit of a laugh. I want to tell you that I think you are strangely charismatic, considering your freakishly odd appearance, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nothing, and I am angry. You like bathing in gasoline, scratching yourself publicly, and making faces at babies until they cry, 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 people without AIDS. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I'm pissed off. I'd really like us to become a Heathcliff and Catherine-like ghost couple and creep out softhearted onlookers in our restless afterlife, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, I assume, in some other more cheerful reality among the infinite number of alternate universes out there. Take care of yourself and never forget that pushing Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A Start on your keyboard may be fatal to your health.
~ 4.252.99.182. |