 |
  |
 |
Thursday, November 27, 2025
Dear Rocky Balboa,
By the time you read this, I'll be pushing up the daisies. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but seeing you without makeup made homosexuality suddenly seem very feasible to me. I know this might seem like a bit of a shock to you, seeing as we made all those plans to live together in happily unwedded bliss, or a reasonable facsimile, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need nails, matches and a voodoo doll of you. I want to tell you that I think you are composed mainly of various carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, phosphorus, iron, copper, magnesium, sulfur, calcium, potassium, iodine, sodium and silicon compounds (well, duh...), but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are heiress to the throne of Rondark, and I am on my own plane of psychological existence. You like stamp collecting, painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, and nibbling off wires to public computers at libraries and Internet cafés, 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 in Hell, after killing each other. 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 acquaintances, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, even if they only lasted a few microseconds. Take care of yourself and never forget to write down the number of every donkey cart that hits you.
~ Jane. |