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Dear voices that I hear sometimes in my head,
By the time you read this, I'll be sacrificing myself to the Devil. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I'm not getting any younger, and you're not getting any richer. I know this might seem like an episode of Days of Our Lives to you, seeing as we made all those plans to grow old, fat and senile together, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain high. I just need more cowbell. I want to tell you that I think you are a Cylon imposter, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are an epic fail, and I am on drugs. You like having sex in dumpsters, scratching yourself publicly, and finding out a random victim's e-mail address and subscribe it to every advertisement letter you can find, 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 desperately try another time traveling session to prevent the sad chain of events that led me to meet you in the first place. I'd really like us to become permanently estranged, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, during my opiate daydream earlier today, after which I woke up to the cold and harsh reality again. Take care of yourself and never forget where you leave the keys. Honestly, those things are are a PAIN to find again.
~ Your favorite drugdealer. |