 |
  |
 |
Wednesday, November 19, 2025
Dear wife nr. 14,
By the time you read this, I'll be almost through three more regiments. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but well... no, I'm not sorry. Lying was always my worst problem with you, and I'm sorry. No. No, I'm not. I know this might seem like a slap in the face to you, seeing as we made all those plans to slowly cannibalize each other one bite at a time, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — it's just a shame I waited so long to do it, and wasted so much of my valuable time. I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule. 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 the flesh and blood scion of the Devil himself, and I am angry. You like fondling barnyard animals, painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, and practicing surgery on household pests, 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 different continents. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "anorexia", "bulimia" and/or "starvation" in my presence. I'd really like us to become theatrical actors in a Romeo & Juliet play, except we'll kill ourselves for real in the end just for the sake of realism, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before I decided to read through your diary last week. Take care of yourself and never forget your true place in life (which is at my feet, groveling in abject obedience).
~ Your future self. P.S. You are the one billionth person to read this letter. Click here to receive your prize! D.S. |