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Friday, September 5, 2025
Dear Mario,
By the time you read this, I'll be serving number 977. If you get here quickly enough, you might be able to get in to see me before I wash the stink of manfilth from my body and go home for the night. 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 a sinister scheme from me to stage an "accident" and claim the life insurance policy on you (which it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push you into the sea tied to a large brick, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need to plot your murder for another week and I'm set to go. I want to tell you that I think you are not the worst lover I ever had, but that would be a bald-faced lie, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are an epic fail, and I am a member of a religion that has repeatedly confirmed that people like that are going to burn in hell. You like smoking banana peels, gay midgets, and practicing surgery on household pests, 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 each other sometime in the next millennia. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my girlfriends and I are trading stories on our worst sexual experiences. 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, which lasted until you unexpectedly woke up from your coma. Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the sniper rifle, and I know how to use it.
~ Princess Peach. |