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Dear Lloyd Simcoe,
By the time you read this, I'll be at Community Hospital, being prepared for a sex-change operation. Our time together made me realize some important things about myself. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but to be honest, I'd be more sorry if I were to stay. I know this might seem like an Uncyclopedia in-joke to you, seeing as we made all those plans to trade all our remaining STDs even-steven, 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 need need need need... well; I can't quite remember. I want to tell you that I think you are my repressed feminine side, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the disembodied head of Patrick Duffy, and I am a grue and will certainly eat you the next time we meet. You like bungee jumping from church steeples, painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, and finding out a random victim's e-mail address and subscribe it to every advertisement letter you can find, 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 each other as soon as possible, since the Internet connection on my computer isn't working, and I figured I could browse through your computer during our "date". But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever the hypnotism I'm paying for wears off. I'd really like us to become theatrical actors in a Romeo & Juliet play, except we'll kill ourselves for real in the end just for the sake of realism, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, up until the effect of the morphine wore off. Take care of yourself and never forget your true place in life (which is at my feet, groveling in abject obedience).
~ Your future self. |