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Dear Mickey Finn,
By the time you read this, I'll be hiding under your bed with a butcher's knife. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but my sadistic urges have become completely uncontrollable, and I don’t think I can see you again without having to torture you. I know this might seem like an insidious scheme to dominate the universe to you, seeing as we made all those plans to hack into Pentagon's databases and expose the alien cover-up in Roswell, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need to find someone who is male and breathes — and quickly. I want to tell you that I think you are exceptionally undistinguished, in a boring, non-threatening way, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Nazi war criminal, and I am a schoolgirl. You like caressing lamp accessories, dating circus midgets, and nibbling off wires to public computers at libraries and Internet cafés, 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 each other as soon as possible, since the Internet connection on my computer isn't working, and I figured I could browse through your computer during our "date". But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "obesity", "fat" and/or "pig" in my presence. I'd really like us to become partners in crime and steal candy from helpless little kids, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, well, no... but no-one else has to know that. Take care of yourself and never forget that I'm being entirely serious.
~ Sheila (my street name). P.S. You're fired! D.S. |