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Dear Sex toy,
By the time you read this, I'll be tripping on shoelaces (I had no idea that you could get THIS high on them...). I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but you weren't at home, and anyways I forgot to bring my AK with me. I know this might seem like a very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to terrorize the elderly couple that lives down the road, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule. I want to tell you that I think you are ...alive and breathing, 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 stuck in an elevator and slowly succumbing to my own flatulence (since I had nothing but pea soup and brown beans this morning). You like wearing my knickers on your noggin, playing with your pasta meals until it looks like the Flying Spaghetti Monster before proceeding to eat it, and recommending suicide as the only viable cure for hiccups, 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 at Moe's Tavern. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me to define the word "retarded". I'd really like us to become snobbish self-styled intellectuals who always change the subject to 19th century Russian literature in order to look smart everytime a third person approaches, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, well, no... but no-one else has to know that. Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you masturbate, Friedrich Nietzsche kills God.
P.S. You forgot your dildo at my place when you visited me last Sunday. D.S. |