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Sunday, February 8, 2026
Dear Santa,
By the time you read this, I'll be tied to a score of helium balloons, thinking about some non-fatal way of coming back down to earth safely (help, please?).
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I know this might seem like a punch in the jaw to you, seeing as we made all those plans to live together in happily unwedded bliss, or a reasonable facsimile, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — or at least that's what you're supposed to say in these situations. I just need to enter "4 8 15 16 23 42" into my command prompt every 108th minute. 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 a Nazi war criminal, and I am really your split personality, writing letters to itself and pretending to be an actual person. You like guessing the weight of elderly women, juggling chainsaws, 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 people without AIDS. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I make additions to my personal list of people I intend to kill. I'd really like us to become Siamese twins (we might have to undergo an extensive surgery for that though), if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before we ended up in Hell together. Take care of yourself and never forget to brush your teeth. Oh wait; you don't have any, you toothless old fuck.
~ That old woman next door. P.S. This is what the alphabet would look like without Q and R. D.S. |