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Dear psychiatrist,
By the time you read this, I'll be omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but my eyes have yet to fully recover from last week when your wig fell off. I know this might seem like I'm into polygamy or something just because I have five wives at the same time, but I'm sorry about this — I think. 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 so incredibly full of shit that it's a miracle that you haven't exploded into a cascading rivulet of foul smelling excrements yet, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a pedophile, and I am everything you will never be. You like attacking clergymen, lassoing people on subway cars, and finding out a random victim's e-mail address and subscribe it to every advertisement letter you can find, 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 everyone else in the world, just to find out the answer — or at least I should, you have no hope on that score. 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 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, before the psychiatrist told me that you were my split personality all along. Take care of yourself and never forget that you've only got one bullet left, it's going to take more than that to stop me.
~ Your new ex. |