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Dear Uncle Sam,
By the time you read this, I'll be counting to one googolplex (and I'm only at 14444 at the moment). I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I've misplaced my copy of Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" and I had to improvise. I know this might seem like a punch in the jaw to you, seeing as we made all those plans to alphabetize our combined compact disc collections someday, 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 men, on some kind of rotating schedule. I want to tell you that I think you are not the worst lover I ever had, but that would be a bald-faced lie, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are one of Evil Bert's sinister henchmen, and I am a schoolgirl. You like laying on the floor with all the lights off, peeling watermelons, and filling guinea pigs with helium, 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 someone mentions the words "ugly", "useless" and/or "stupid" in my presence. I'd really like us to become jaded, cynical and bitter in our own different ways, 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 all the people we've killed together.
~ The Samaritans. P.S. This is what the alphabet would look like without Q and R. D.S. |