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Wednesday, December 17, 2025
Dear yesterday's news,
By the time you read this, I'll be converting my house into an undead bastion. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but time is money, and according to your most current bank statement you have insufficient funds to purchase additional time credits with me. I know this might seem like a crappy thing to do 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 — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. I just need need need need need... well; I can't quite remember. I want to tell you that I think you are a fucking ugly bitch, and I want to stab you to death, and then play around with your blood, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are heiress to the throne of Rondark, and I am a member of a religion that has repeatedly confirmed that people like that are going to burn in hell. You like stamp collecting, dating circus midgets, and sewing extra limbs onto your body, 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 for the hell of it. It's not like we don't both have herpes. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me if I've ever picked up a hitchhiker I really regret picking up. I'd really like us to become the de facto lead couple in one of those crappy never ending sitcoms that plays annoying canned laughter after every damn sentence, be it funny or not, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, way back in the 60's during Woodstock. Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the sniper rifle, and I know how to use it.
~ That old woman next door. |