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Dear Rocky Balboa,
By the time you read this, I'll be transferring my consciousness to a member of an extinct race of sentient egg-plants on planet Vollapus 620 million years ago. 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 big sick demented joke in a vortex of meaninglessness to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kill your parents and claim the life insurance money, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain intoxicated. I just need to go to the moon or a gay retared place. I want to tell you that I think you are going to get coal for Christmas this year, being as naughty as you are, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are under surveillance by the CIA, and I am a Mousketeer. You like playing Worms 3D, talking like Captain Kirk, and smelling your 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 everyone else in the world, just to find out the answer — or at least I should, you have no hope on that score. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "obesity", "fat" and/or "pig" in my presence. I'd really like us to become a Heathcliff and Catherine-like ghost couple and creep out softhearted onlookers in our restless afterlife, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, way back in the 60's during Woodstock. Take care of yourself and never forget our honeymoon in Yourspace.
~ Your sycophantic lodger whom you will never be rid of. |