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Tuesday, February 24, 2026
Dear tomorrow's headlines,
By the time you read this, I'll be counting to one googolplex (and I'm only at 61111 at the moment).
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but no, I am not going to stop sending these letters just because the judge I know this might seem like a very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to destroy the universe, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but another officer is at the door - I'll write more in an hour. I just need more time alone. No... More time away from you. All of it, really. Yeah. That's what I mean to say. I want to tell you that I think you are like a senile old parrot, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a good-for-nothing crack whore, and I am a serial killer convicted for the deaths of 61 people. You like groping fresh produce, tripping on your own shoelaces on purpose just so you can blame the Jews for it, and releasing frogs into preschool kitchens, 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 just as long as you are willing to spend half your life hanging by your pinkie toes, for that's the type of torture I have planned for you.. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I want to remember what suffering feels like. I'd really like us to become nihilistic Al-Qaeda terrorists and blow up everything that moves, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before the police accidentally found the body hidden in your closet. Take care of yourself and never forget where you leave the keys. Honestly, those things are are a PAIN to find again.
~ Sailor Moon. P.S. I think I ran over your mom with my car earlier today. At least I think it was her, but there wasn't much left to identify... D.S. |