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Dear whatever your name may be,
By the time you read this, I'll be on a train to Fiji.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I know this might seem like a sinister scheme from me to stage an "accident" and claim the life insurance policy on you (which it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to visit your grandparents to give them a big ol' kiss, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — mostly. I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule. I want to tell you that I think you are my repressed feminine side, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are committed, literally, and I am fucked up for life after 15 years of heavy heroin abuse. You like bungee jumping from church steeples, contemplating suicide (but always being so damned indecisive), and smelling other people's fingers, 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 make additions to my personal list of people I intend to kill. I'd really like us to become an African-American comedy duo, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, which lasted until you unexpectedly woke up from your coma. Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the Infinity Gauntlet and is thus the supreme being of this universe.
~ The collective members of your band. |