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Tuesday, February 24, 2026
Dear whatever your name may be,
By the time you read this, I'll be dead; not surprising, since I surgically implanted this letter into my groin. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your feelings are inherently less valuable than mine. I know this might seem like an insidious scheme to dominate the universe to you, seeing as we made all those plans to run the 3rd marathon around the world together (tied together, that is), but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but I've been stuck in this nightmare world for months now, and writing this letter is my last chance of a wake up call. I just need more sex, and for longer than the 3 minutes and 2 inches you're able to provide... or was it the other way around? Anyway... I want to tell you that I think you are not as strong in the Force as the Emperor thought, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the flesh and blood scion of the Devil himself, and I am a schoolgirl. You like playing Worms 3D, scratching yourself publicly, and feeding rice to sea gulls, 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 I've consumed rohypnol and Vodka. I'd really like us to become road sweepers or something, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, I think. 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.
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