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Dear psychiatrist,
By the time you read this, I'll be a mother. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your feelings are inherently less valuable than mine. I know this might seem like a total violation of the laws of physics to you, seeing as we made all those plans to alphabetize our combined compact disc collections someday, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. I just need to put this facade you've been living to an end, before I run out of script material. Ghostwriters cost a fortune. I want to tell you that I think you are composed mainly of various carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, phosphorus, iron, copper, magnesium, sulfur, calcium, potassium, iodine, sodium and silicon compounds (well, duh...), but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a pederast, and I am not you. You like stamp collecting, recording your own toilet visits and sharing it on file sharing networks as MP3's wrongfully named as famous songs, and smelling other people's fingers, 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 Hell, after killing each other. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I make additions to my personal list of people I intend to kill. I'd really like us to become snobbish self-styled intellectuals who always change the subject to 19th century Russian literature in order to look smart everytime a third person approaches, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least during those many hours of drug and alcohol induced unconsciousness. Take care of yourself and never forget that I know where you live, your name and what you look like, so beware.
~ George Philipp Telemann. |