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Wednesday, February 11, 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 sacrificing myself to the Devil. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but my sadistic urges have become completely uncontrollable, and I don’t think I can see you again without having to torture you. 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 spend at least more than two hours together, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly. I want to tell you that I think you are like an impudent grain of sand, warring against a raging ocean, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are one of Evil Bert's sinister henchmen, and I am a fucked-up loser who only likes to hang around you because of your money. You like imitating 50s actors while shoe shopping, harassing sheep until they explode, 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 our respective parents, if only so we can feel unfaithful again. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone jokingly claims that there's a monster standing behind me. I'd really like us to become slowly solidified into a kind of buttery jell, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, my left hand and I. Take care of yourself and never forget that time when I showed everyone a picture of your penis. That was funny.
P.S. Can I borrow 5 bucks? D.S. |