 |
  |
 |
Friday, February 13, 2026
Dear other half,
By the time you read this, I'll be eaten alive by Jabba the Hutt. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but one of us has to go, and the strychnine I've been adding to your Corn Flakes doesn't seem to be working. I know this might seem like I'm into polygamy or something just because I have five wives at the same time, but I'm sorry about this — but as a bisexual, I'm interested in only two kinds of people — and quite frankly, you don't fit into either category. I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule. I want to tell you that I think you are a virgin, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the demi-duchess of Kumswalla, and I am suicidal. You like bathing in gasoline, harassing sheep until they explode, and accusing comatose patients of laziness, 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 everyone else in the world, just to find out the answer — or at least I should, you have no hope on that score. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my house is in need of some serious cleaning up. I'd really like us to become a Heathcliff and Catherine-like ghost couple and creep out softhearted onlookers in our restless afterlife, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, well, no... but no-one else has to know that. Take care of yourself and never forget our honeymoon on Mount Rushmore.
~ Lara Bingle. |