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Thursday, January 22, 2026
Dear whatever your name may be,
By the time you read this, I'll be living in your house and drinking your coffee. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but with your breath, a letter seemed the safest option. I know this might seem like a sinister scheme from me to stage an "accident" and claim the life insurance policy on you (which it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to hack into Pentagon's databases and expose the alien cover-up in Roswell, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain intoxicated. I just need more sex, and for longer than the 3 minutes and 2 inches you're able to provide... or was it the other way around? Anyway... I want to tell you that I think you are Jimbo, 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 everything you will never be. You like beating yourself up in front of a mirror, pushing unsuspecting tourists off from very high places and watching them fall, and filling guinea pigs with helium, 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 watch Aphex Twin's music video for Windowlicker and the "hot babe" turns around. I'd really like us to become supervillains and plot to conquer the world together (after which I will kill you as there can only be one true Master), if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, or so we'll pretend. Take care of yourself and never forget your true place in life (which is at my feet, groveling in abject obedience).
~ That Guy. |
