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Dear Long John Silver,
By the time you read this, I'll be eaten alive by Jabba the Hutt. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but with your breath, a letter seemed the safest option. I know this might seem like an insidious scheme to dominate the universe to you, seeing as we made all those plans to burn down our neighbor's house, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need a bit of a laugh. I want to tell you that I think you are a Terminator sent from the future to kill me, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a pedophile, and I am a member of a religion that has repeatedly confirmed that people like that are going to burn in hell. You like attacking clergymen, scratching yourself publicly, 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 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 forget what your name was. 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, before the psychiatrist told me that you were my split personality all along. Take care of yourself and never forget that I'm being entirely serious.
~ Your very dissatisfied penis. P.S. You forgot your dildo at my place when you visited me last Sunday. D.S. |