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Sunday, December 7, 2025
Dear Regan MacNeil,
By the time you read this, I'll be transferring my consciousness to a member of an extinct race of sentient egg-plants on planet Vollapus 620 million years ago. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but with your breath, a letter seemed the safest option. I know this might seem like , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic to you, seeing as we made all those plans to drink the blood of every man, woman and child in Iraq, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but honestly, putting my hamster in the microwave was too much. I just need more out of this relationship. Financially, emotionally, sexually, intellectually. Everythingually. I want to tell you that I think you are Jimbo, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are scared of sheep, and I am a mother of two-and-a-half. You like to sabotage ice hockey matches by repeatedly throwing out extra pucks onto the rink, talking like Captain Kirk, and smelling other people's fingers, 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 again, but in another life — preferably a previous one. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever it is that I need to confess my most heinous sins on my deathbed. I'd really like us to become bitter enemies, constantly plotting each other's downfall until one of us (preferably me) succeeds, giving that person (again, preferably me) the opportunity to engage in stereotypical maniacal laughter, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least when we turned the clock forward a few hours and then pretended that something nice happened during that time (whereas nothing at all happened, really). 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.
~ Norman Bates. P.S. I poured some arsenic into your food yesterday. Shows what I think of infidelity, you unfaithful wench! D.S. |