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Dear insignificant other,
By the time you read this, I'll be eaten alive by Jabba the Hutt. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your feelings are inherently less valuable than mine. I know this might seem like a very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is) 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 — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. 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 not as strong in the Force as the Emperor thought, 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 pregnant. You like caressing lamp accessories, contemplating suicide (but always being so damned indecisive), and releasing frogs into preschool kitchens, 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 on Friday and then try to kill each other through strangulation (or with knives) just for fun. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever a six-legged rhinoceros flies by. I'd really like us to become Siamese twins (we might have to undergo an extensive surgery for that though), if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before the psychiatrist told me that you're just a figment of my imagination. Take care of yourself and never forget that I'm no longer in a coma.
~ Yet Another Anonymous Sex Partner. P.S. I just found out that I have AIDS. That probably means you have it too. D.S. |