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Friday, November 21, 2025
Dear Miss Chernobyl,
By the time you read this, I'll be captured by the FBI.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but no, I am not going to stop sending these letters just because the judge I know this might seem like , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic 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 — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need to finish that annoying Zork game on that Uncyclopedia website I told you about yesterday (it's driving me crazy, it's like no matter what you do, you'll ALWAYS end up being eaten by a grue!). I want to tell you that I think you are my repressed masculine side, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are an atheist, and I am Republican. You like bungee jumping from church steeples, carving CD's into lethal shurikens with which to... kill people, 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 again someday, but only if you go in for surgery and get your brain replaced. And your nose. Or to keep it simple, ask them to change everything but your name. Or have them change that as well, unless doing so would complicate billing. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever Saturn orbits Pluto. I'd really like us to become friends, but I think that won't happen. I'd rather not speak to you again, 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 I still have your diary and can at any time mail the most embarrassing parts (like the chapter about the summer of '04) of it to The New York Times.
~ 4.252.99.182. P.S. You are the one billionth person to read this letter. Click here to receive your prize! D.S. |