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Dear [insert name of recipient here],
By the time you read this, I'll be mutated into something unrecognizable. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I finally got around to reading your "poems" this morning, and I figure that this is better than a bullet in the head. I know this might seem like an episode of Days of Our Lives to you, seeing as we made all those plans to alphabetize our combined compact disc collections someday, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain high. I just need to engage in homicidal behavior on a massive scale. It can not be corrected but I have no other way to fulfill my needs. I want to tell you that I think you are a Terminator sent from the future to kill me, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are so fat that Jupiter orbits around you sometimes, and I am everything you will never be. You like harassing sleeping rottweilers, pushing unsuspecting tourists off from very high places and watching them fall, and accusing comatose patients of laziness, 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 on other planets. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I run around screaming and foaming in my padded cell. I'd really like us to become old without ever speaking to, or thinking of, each other ever again, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, while we were three thousand miles away from each other. Take care of yourself and never forget the restraining order the judge issued against you.
~ Bruce Wayne. |