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Dear Long John Silver,
By the time you read this, I'll be waiting for you in the closet with a butcher's knife. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but you weren't at home, and anyways I forgot to bring my AK with me. I know this might seem like a Wikipedia article to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push the boundaries of human genetics past the point of good taste by procreating, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain high. I just need need need need need... well; I can't quite remember. I want to tell you that I think you are going to find out that the anthrax I've contaminated this letter with might be quite unpleasant once it's started to take hold on you, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are an agnostic, and I am a fucked-up loser who only likes to hang around you because of your money. You like toying with mousetraps, pretending to be Captain America, 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 other species. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever there are blue whales swimming in my goldfish bowl. I'd really like us to become slowly solidified into a kind of buttery jell, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, unless I was just dreaming. Take care of yourself and never forget that time when I showed everyone a picture of your penis. That was funny.
~ Yet Another Anonymous Sex Partner. |