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Thursday, February 19, 2026
Dear Uncle Sam,
By the time you read this, I'll be burnt at stake by the Spanish Inquisition.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I know this might seem like an insidious scheme to dominate the universe to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Red Cross" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, 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 go to the moon or a gay retared place. I want to tell you that I think you are not as strong in the Force as the Emperor thought, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the disembodied head of Patrick Duffy, and I am deaf, dumb and blind. You like bungee jumping from church steeples, painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, 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 again, but in another life — preferably a previous one. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I walk past the ape cages at the zoo. I'd really like us to become partners in crime and rob helpless old ladies of their retirement savings, 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 our honeymoon with Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.
~ Lara Bingle. |