 |
  |
 |
Wednesday, December 10, 2025
Dear John Bull,
By the time you read this, I'll be at Community Hospital, being prepared for a sex-change operation. Our time together made me realize some important things about myself. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your feelings are inherently less valuable than mine. I know this might seem like an unexpected departure 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 — at least so long as I remain high. I just need a dirty magazine, my right hand and a toilet paper — that's all it takes, really. I want to tell you that I think you are a..well...um...okay, nice...yeah...maybe, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the latest addition to my evergrowing list of people I'm planning to kill, and I am on drugs. You like fondling barnyard animals, peeling watermelons, and you cannot lie, the other brothers can't deny, when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in your face you get sprung, 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 the Forest That Nobody Cares About. 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 engaged in a brutal medieval fight to the death with the good ole' armour, horse and lances (but only if I get to win), if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least when we turned the clock forward a few hours and then pretended that something nice happened during that time (whereas nothing at all happened, really). Take care of yourself and never forget where you leave the keys. Honestly, those things are are a PAIN to find again.
~ The itsy bitsy spider. |