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Tuesday, February 17, 2026
Dear Jimbo,
By the time you read this, I'll be relocated to a secret tropical hide-out, drinking fruit drinks and living a life in luxury for the money I drained from your bank account this morning (so long sucker, HAHAHAHAHA!!!). I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but my eyes have yet to fully recover from last week when your wig fell off. I know this might seem like a total violation of the laws of physics to you, seeing as we made all those plans to terrorize the elderly couple that lives down the road, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need to find someone who is male and breathes — and quickly. I want to tell you that I think you are the unidentified person I ran over with my truck at 10:40 P.M. yesterday, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are an epic fail, and I am that lonely obsessed stalker who refused to just settle for your autograph. You like harassing sleeping rottweilers, dressing up as yourself during Halloween, and smelling your 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 on other planets. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I see someone wearing radish earrings and a butterbeer cork necklace. I'd really like us to become born-again strangers, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before you decided to become yourself and get to be so much of a stuck-up prig. Take care of yourself and never forget that your psychiatrist thinks you're a jerk too.
~ Your future self. |