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Dear you with that unpronouncable name,
By the time you read this, I'll be tortured by Jack Bauer. 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 sudden change 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 if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter. I just need need need need need... well; I can't quite remember. I want to tell you that I think you are in need of some serious physical therapy against your hideous acid breath, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a balloon animal fan, and I am the creep who has been sending you human ears every Friday for the last eight months. You like imitating 50s actors while shoe shopping, dressing up as yourself during Halloween, 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 — oh wait, I meant to write "hate" of course. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I sharpen my hunting knife out in the garage. I'd really like us to become the de facto lead couple in one of those crappy never ending sitcoms that plays annoying canned laughter after every damn sentence, be it funny or not, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, well, no... but no-one else has to know that. Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the Infinity Gauntlet and is thus the supreme being of this universe.
~ Sheila (my street name). |