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Dear all-boobs-and-no-brains,
By the time you read this, I'll be wiretapping your telephone calls. 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 , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic to you, seeing as we made all those plans to suck out the souls of those unworthy of a vampiric prowess, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule. I want to tell you that I think you are dumb as a rock, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nothing, and I am vastly more intelligent than that. You like forcing naughty school children to read the Necronomicon, contemplating suicide (but always being so damned indecisive), 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 again, but only if we're re-incarnated into each other's bodies and I get to be "you" next time. Oh yes. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever the police ask me where I bought the stuff. I'd really like us to become Siamese twins (we might have to undergo an extensive surgery for that though), 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 I'm no longer in a coma.
~ Your future self. |