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Dear you with that unpronouncable name,
By the time you read this, I'll be in ur pet store, huffing ur kittenz. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I'm not getting any younger, and you're not getting any richer. I know this might seem like a punch in the jaw to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kidnap a first-grade school class together, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter. I just need to find someone who is male and breathes — and quickly. 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 a furry, and I am hypersexual. You like toying with mousetraps, pretending to be Captain America, and disturbing annual sci-fi conventions with whistles and cymbals, 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 for the hell of it. It's not like we don't both have herpes. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I find another piece of Titanic buried in my backyard. 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, at least while we were in separate cells at the police station. Take care of yourself and never forget that it's going to take more than a restraining order to keep me away from our children — they are mine too and I will not be denied them.
~ The queen of Doggerland. P.S. Do you remember that VHS tape I showed you yesterday, the one with a towel-headed man and a well? If so, you now have six days left to live. Life's a bitch, ain't she? D.S. |