 |
  |
 |
Thursday, November 21, 2024
Dear Sex toy,
By the time you read this, I'll be zombiefied by a doomsday virus. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but attorneys cost money, and I'm eating for two now, if you know what I mean. I know this might seem like a slap in the face to you, seeing as we made all those plans to suck out the souls of those unworthy of a vampiric prowess, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. I just need more out of this relationship. Financially, emotionally, sexually, intellectually. Everythingually. I want to tell you that I think you are the worst Tetris player ever, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are heiress to the throne of Rondark, and I am everything you will never be. You like sprinting through morning traffic while on fire, putting things on springs, and watching DaxFlame on YouTube while singing "Lucy in the Sky of Diamonds", 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 in Hell, after killing each other. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I go on another nightly tour to quench my vampiric thirst for human blood. 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, before the police accidentally found the body hidden in your closet. Take care of yourself and never forget how much lower your reputation will slip as soon as I publish this on my blog.
~ 4.252.99.182. P.S. This is what the alphabet would look like without Q and R. D.S. |