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Dear Bob,
By the time you read this, I'll be buying the farm. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but you win some, you lose some - and in your case, you lose everything. I know this might seem like a crappy thing to do to you, seeing as we made all those plans to destroy the universe, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but I've been stuck in this nightmare world for months now, and writing this letter is my last chance of a wake up call. I just need to engage in homicidal behavior on a massive scale. It can not be corrected but I have no other way to fulfill my needs. I want to tell you that I think you are like a senile old parrot, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are wanted in nineteen states, and I am a champion pie eating finalist. You like flaying lambs, pretending to be Captain America, 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 in Hell, after killing each other. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need to tell my side of the story on Jerry Springer. I'd really like us to become a Heathcliff and Catherine-like ghost couple and creep out softhearted onlookers in our restless afterlife, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, unless I was just dreaming. Take care of yourself and never forget that you've only got one bullet left, it's going to take more than that to stop me.
~ Lara Bingle. |