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Friday, September 19, 2025
Dear Archchancellor,
By the time you read this, I'll be sent to the cornfield. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but one of us has to go, and the strychnine I've been adding to your Corn Flakes doesn't seem to be working. I know this might seem like an omitted chapter from Dante´s Divine Comedy to you, seeing as we made all those plans to visit Easter Island and go on an egg hunt, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but I've been stuck in this nightmare world for months now, and writing this letter is my last chance of a wake up call. I just need nails, matches and a voodoo doll of you. I want to tell you that I think you are so incredibly full of shit that it's a miracle that you haven't exploded into a cascading rivulet of foul smelling excrements yet, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are from another dimension, and I am the main character in a really crappy pulp horror novel about rabid watermelons. You like stamp collecting, big butts, and genitally piercing unsuspecting strangers in unemployment line queues, 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 forget what your name was. I'd really like us to become bitter enemies, constantly plotting each other's downfall until one of us (preferably me) succeeds, giving that person (again, preferably me) the opportunity to engage in stereotypical maniacal laughter, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, with that goat up in the Himalayas. Take care of yourself and never forget to brush your teeth. Oh wait; you don't have any, you toothless old fuck.
~ Dalai Llama. |