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Tuesday, February 10, 2026
Dear "Mr. It was only a dream" (as my psychiatrist insists I refer to you these days) ,
By the time you read this, I'll be staring at the sun with the intent of becoming blind. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but enough is enough. I've HAD it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane! I know this might seem like an omitted chapter from Dante´s Divine Comedy to you, seeing as we made all those plans to spend at least more than two hours together, 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 a dirty magazine, my right hand and a toilet paper — that's all it takes, really. I want to tell you that I think you are perfectly looking, at least according to Neptunian standards, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a balloon animal fan,
and I am vastly more intelligent than that.
You like stamp collecting, contemplating suicide (but always being so damned indecisive), and dissecting frogs with butterknives,
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 on different continents.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need to I'd really like us to become people that pretend they never dated, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before the police accidentally found the body hidden in your closet. Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you see a rainbow, someone is having gay sex.
~ Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. P.S. I accidentally dropped your cat into a bowl of hydrochloric acid yesterday. I'm afraid she got sent to the cornfield. Sorry about that. D.S. |