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Thursday, February 26, 2026
Dear future murder victim nr. 16,
By the time you read this, I'll be feeding your pet goldfishes to my cats Hortensia and Petunia. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your feelings are inherently less valuable than mine. I know this might seem like a sinister scheme from me to stage an "accident" and claim the life insurance policy on you (which it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to trade all our remaining STDs even-steven, 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 to find someone who is male and breathes — and quickly. I want to tell you that I think you are going to get coal for Christmas this year, being as naughty as you are, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the disembodied head of Patrick Duffy, and I am deaf, dumb and blind. You like using magnifying glasses to kill aunts, contemplating suicide (but always being so damned indecisive), and gas tungsten arc welding, 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 each other as soon as possible, since the Internet connection on my computer isn't working, and I figured I could browse through your computer during our "date". 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 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, five past seven on Sunday November 3, 2003 springs to mind, for instance. Take care of yourself and never forget that pushing Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A Start on your keyboard may be fatal to your health.
~ Mom. P.S. You forgot your dildo at my place when you visited me last Sunday. D.S. |