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Friday, January 30, 2026
Dear "Mr. Tiny",
By the time you read this, I'll be feeding your pet goldfishes to my cats Hortensia and Petunia. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but with your breath, a letter seemed the safest option. I know this might seem like a sudden turn of events to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Red Cross" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — sorry that I didn't take the chance to get rid of you last month, but I promise I'll make up for it the next time we meet. I just need more cowbell. I want to tell you that I think you are perfectly looking, at least according to Neptunian standards, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are heiress to the throne of Rondark, and I am a champion pie eating finalist. You like smoking banana peels, tripping on your own shoelaces on purpose just so you can blame the Jews for it, and releasing frogs into preschool kitchens, 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 only if we're re-incarnated into each other's bodies and I get to be "you" next time. Oh yes. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my herpes sores erupt. 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, assuming that "good times" is just another way of saying "total suckage". Take care of yourself and never forget that I'm being entirely serious.
~ Bruce Wayne. P.S. It was me who assassinated J.F. Kennedy. D.S. |