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Sunday, February 8, 2026
Dear psychiatrist,
By the time you read this, I'll be selling my soul on eBay for 10,000 dollars. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but well... no, I'm not sorry. Lying was always my worst problem with you, and I'm sorry. No. No, I'm not. I know this might seem like an Uncyclopedia in-joke to you, seeing as we made all those plans to trade all our remaining STDs even-steven, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but as a bisexual, I'm interested in only two kinds of people — and quite frankly, you don't fit into either category. I just need more space. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan is sounding pretty nice to me right now. I want to tell you that I think you are the creep who's making all those nightly phone calls where only heavy breathing is heard, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the only one in the world who actually thinks Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer are funny, and I am a schoolgirl. You like flaying lambs, playing with your pasta meals until it looks like the Flying Spaghetti Monster before proceeding to eat it, and belly-button sniffing, 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 other people. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need to tell my side of the story on Jerry Springer. I'd really like us to become born-again strangers, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, unless I was just dreaming. Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you wish for coal as a Christmas present, you'll get porridge instead.
~ Hannibal Lecter. P.S. Do you know what the blue rhino said to the green elephant? If so, write it to me in return, because I don't. D.S. |