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Monday, October 27, 2025
Dear pointless entity,
By the time you read this, I'll be on a murderous rampage downtown. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I've misplaced my copy of Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" and I had to improvise. I know this might seem like an Uncyclopedia in-joke 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 — mostly. 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 ...unusually odorous, in a good way... sometimes, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are heiress to the throne of Rondark, and I am that lonely obsessed stalker who refused to just settle for your autograph. You like flaying lambs, peeling watermelons, 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 — oh wait, I meant to write "hate" of course. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me to define the word "promiscuous". I'd really like us to become snobbish self-styled intellectuals who always change the subject to 19th century Russian literature in order to look smart everytime a third person approaches, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least during those many hours of drug and alcohol induced unconsciousness. Take care of yourself and never forget how much lower your reputation will slip as soon as I publish this on my blog.
~ (Jenny is being disconnected, so don't try calling). P.S. It was me who raped your little sister last summer. I hope you'll one day forgive me. D.S. |