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Monday, February 23, 2026
Dear LeChuck,
By the time you read this, I'll be eaten alive by Jabba the Hutt. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I have stolen three nuclear warheads and am planning to commit suicide by detonating them (in midtown New York, just to spice things up). I know this might seem like a total violation of the laws of physics to you, seeing as we made all those plans to cannibalize your family, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — or at least that's what you're supposed to say in these situations. I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule. 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 card-carrying member of the Hair Club for Men, and I am a serial killer convicted for the deaths of 95 people. You like having sex in dumpsters, dressing up as yourself during Halloween, and arguing with the voices only you can hear over dinner plans, 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 I need to tell my side of the story on Jerry Springer. I'd really like us to become permanently estranged, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before I decided to read through your diary last week. Take care of yourself and never forget that time when I showed everyone a picture of your penis. That was funny.
~ Your alternate reality granddaughter. P.S. It was me who raped your little sister last summer. I hope you'll one day forgive me. D.S. |