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Dear John Malkovich,
By the time you read this, I'll be stuck in a timeloop with no hope of escape. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I have stolen three nuclear warheads and am planning to commit suicide by detonating them (in midtown New York, just to spice things up). I know this might seem like an omitted chapter from Dante´s Divine Comedy to you, seeing as we made all those plans to sink the British isles, 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 more sex, and for longer than the 3 minutes and 2 inches you're able to provide... or was it the other way around? Anyway... I want to tell you that I think you are not as good looking as your MySpace photo made it appear, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are committed, literally, and I am your Siamese twin. You like caressing lamp accessories, gay midgets, and you cannot lie, the other brothers can't deny, when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in your face you get sprung, 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 at the Jordanhill railway station. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I smell that characteristic composite stench of rotten eggs, garlic and blue cheese again. I'd really like us to become people that ignore each other in public, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, assuming that "good times" is just another way of saying "total suckage". Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you masturbate, Friedrich Nietzsche kills God.
~ Your intestinal parasite. P.S. I poured some arsenic into your food yesterday. Shows what I think of infidelity, you unfaithful wench! D.S. |