 |
  |
 |
Wednesday, February 11, 2026
Dear "Mr. Tiny",
By the time you read this, I'll be eating your liver with fava beans and a nice chianti. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but attorneys cost money, and I'm eating for two now, if you know what I mean. I know this might seem like an insidious scheme to dominate the universe to you, seeing as we made all those plans to grow old, fat and senile together, 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 kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly. I want to tell you that I think you are not the worst lover I ever had, but that would be a bald-faced lie, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a balloon animal fan, and I am everything you will never be. You like flaying lambs, carving CD's into lethal shurikens with which to... kill people, and watching DaxFlame on YouTube while singing "Lucy in the Sky of Diamonds", 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 someone mentions the words "ugly", "useless" and/or "stupid" in my presence. I'd really like us to become an African-American comedy duo, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before I decided to read through your diary last week. Take care of yourself and never forget that I'm being entirely serious.
~ Brother Eggs-over-easy. P.S. You're fired! D.S. |