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Sunday, November 30, 2025
Dear yesterday's news,
By the time you read this, I'll be trying to cut off my own legs with a toothbrush (just to see if it can be done). 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 an odd twist of fate to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Save the Children" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, 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 men, on some kind of rotating schedule. I want to tell you that I think you are the creep who's making all those nightly phone calls where only heavy breathing is heard, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are from another dimension, and I am on my own plane of psychological existence. You like groping fresh produce, bobbing for old tires in the East River, and playing King Kong with dollhouses in toystores (and going to jail for it), 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 do sadistic things to your digital duplicate in The Sims 3. I'd really like us to become people that pretend not to know each other, 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 still have your diary and can at any time mail the most embarrassing parts (like the chapter about the summer of '04) of it to The New York Times.
~ The "I Like Cheese Monthly" Editor. |