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Sunday, November 9, 2025
Dear [insert name of recipient here],
By the time you read this, I'll be doing my "happy dance" naked, on the side of the M25 motorway. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I finally got around to reading your "poems" this morning, and I figure that this is better than a bullet in the head. I know this might seem like a bit of a shock to you, seeing as we made all those plans to assassinate the Pope, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter. I just need a dirty magazine, my right hand and a toilet paper — that's all it takes, really. I want to tell you that I think you are a Cylon imposter, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a furry, and I am addicted to raspberry muffins. You like toying with mousetraps, peeling watermelons, and smelling your fingers, 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's pets. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me to define the word "retarded". 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, way back in the 60's during Woodstock. Take care of yourself and never forget all the people we've killed together.
~ Your former sister-in-law. P.S. I poured some arsenic into your food yesterday. Shows what I think of infidelity, you unfaithful wench! D.S. |