 |
  |
 |
Dear tomorrow's headlines,
By the time you read this, I'll be eaten by a grue. 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 a kick in the nuts to you, seeing as we made all those plans to hack into Pentagon's databases and expose the alien cover-up in Roswell, 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 more time alone. No... More time away from you. All of it, really. Yeah. That's what I mean to say. I want to tell you that I think you are my personal Jiminy Cricket, 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 enigmatic. You like urine sample collecting, bobbing for old tires in the East River, and sewing extra limbs onto your body, 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 when Hell freezes over. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I dig your cold, dead body up again to have sex with you. I'd really like us to become a Heathcliff and Catherine-like ghost couple and creep out softhearted onlookers in our restless afterlife, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, or so we'll pretend. Take care of yourself and never forget that everything in this letter was a lie.
~ Concerned Citizen. |