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Sunday, November 9, 2025
Dear future amnesiac self,
By the time you read this, I'll be on a pilgrimage to Sears to buy "sporting goods" for my weekend adventure with the male cast members of "My Name Is Earl". I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your needs are inherently less important than mine. I know this might seem like a big sick demented joke in a vortex of meaninglessness to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push the boundaries of human genetics past the point of good taste by procreating, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter. I just need to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly. I want to tell you that I think you are evil incarnate, 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 vastly more intelligent than that. You like having sex in dumpsters, putting things on springs, and you cannot lie, the other brothers can't deny, when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in your face you get sprung, 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 but only so I'll get another shot at killing your for real. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I throw up. I'd really like us to become people that ignore each other in public, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, five past seven on Sunday November 3, 2003 springs to mind, for instance. Take care of yourself and never forget that pushing Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A Start on your keyboard may be fatal to your health.
~ Bruce Wayne. P.S. I am your father. Search your feelings - you know it to be true. D.S. |