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Thursday, December 18, 2025
Dear Regan MacNeil,
By the time you read this, I'll be burnt at stake by the Spanish Inquisition. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I've misplaced my copy of Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" and I had to improvise. I know this might seem like a disappointing turn for the worse to you, seeing as we made all those plans to run the 3rd marathon around the world together (tied together, that is), but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter. I just need more sex, and for longer than the 3 minutes and 2 inches you're able to provide... or was it the other way around? Anyway... I want to tell you that I think you are so incredibly full of shit that it's a miracle that you haven't exploded into a cascading rivulet of foul smelling excrements yet, 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 scared of donuts. You like smoking banana peels, dating circus midgets, and filling guinea pigs with helium, 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 I completely run out of other, far more important things to think about. I'd really like us to become the de facto lead couple in one of those crappy never ending sitcoms that plays annoying canned laughter after every damn sentence, be it funny or not, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, up until the effect of the morphine wore off. Take care of yourself and never forget to have your pets sprayed and neutered.
~ The daemon swineherd in the twilit grotto. |