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Sunday, January 11, 2026
Dear Mario,
By the time you read this, I'll be amidst a raging battle involving thousands of predators, terminators, xenomorphs and space marines. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like the world isn't going to end on December 21, 2012 anyway. I know this might seem like a very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to continue grossing out teens and old people with our cherished "skinny dip and snogging" expeditions to the fountain in the public square, 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 put this facade you've been living to an end, before I run out of script material. Ghostwriters cost a fortune. I want to tell you that I think you are exceptionally undistinguished, in a boring, non-threatening way, 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 worried about it. You like fondling barnyard animals, putting things on springs, and watching animal porn, 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 each other sometime in the next millennia. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I cut myself before I go to sleep. I'd really like us to become permanently estranged, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before you decided to become yourself and get to be so much of a stuck-up prig. Take care of yourself and never forget that you are now statistically 50% less likely to ever find a lasting and fulfilling relationship during your lifetime.
~ Concerned Citizen. |