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Dear hooker I slept with in Vegas,
By the time you read this, I'll be vanished into thin air. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but with your breath, a letter seemed the safest option. I know this might seem like , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic 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 another officer is at the door - I'll write more in an hour. I just need to put this facade you've been living to an end, before I run out of script material. Ghostwriters cost a fortune. I want to tell you that I think you are a Cylon imposter, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are scared of sheep, and I am all that and more. You like projectile vomiting, contemplating suicide (but always being so damned indecisive), and filling guinea pigs with helium, 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 again someday, but only if you go in for surgery and get your brain replaced. And your nose. Or to keep it simple, ask them to change everything but your name. Or have them change that as well, unless doing so would complicate billing. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me to define the word "promiscuous". I'd really like us to become people that pretend not to know each other, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, nah; I'm just screwing with you. Take care of yourself and never forget to eat your vegetables.
P.S. That was an Amanita virosa (destroying angel) you ate yesterday, not a button mushroom as I thought. Oops, I guess I'm really bad with mushrooms... D.S. |