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Wednesday, February 25, 2026
Dear future amnesiac self,
By the time you read this, I'll be sent to the cornfield. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but you weren't at home, and anyways I forgot to bring my AK with me. I know this might seem like a kick in the nuts to you, seeing as we made all those plans to slowly cannibalize each other one bite at a time, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter. I just need to enter "4 8 15 16 23 42" into my command prompt every 108th minute. I want to tell you that I think you are ...alive and breathing, 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 scared of donuts.
You like projectile vomiting, carving CD's into lethal shurikens with which to... kill people, and gas tungsten arc welding,
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 but only so I'll get another shot at killing your for real.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need to I'd really like us to become snobbish self-styled intellectuals who always change the subject to 19th century Russian literature in order to look smart everytime a third person approaches, 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 everything in this letter was a lie.
~ (name is not important as we are all so much more than our names). P.S. You left your Britney Spears album here yesterday. Heck, do you actually listen to that crap? D.S. |