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Dear Uncle Sam,
By the time you read this, I'll be sneaking destroying angels into the button mushroom meal you'll be served within 5 minutes. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like I'm not going to kill you on Saturday anyway. I know this might seem like , well... inevitable, really, 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 — mostly. I just need to plot your murder for another week and I'm set to go. I want to tell you that I think you are really quite adequate, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a pedophile, and I am a fucked-up loser who only likes to hang around you because of your money. You like projectile vomiting, dressing up as yourself during Halloween, and watching DaxFlame on YouTube while singing "Lucy in the Sky of Diamonds", 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 for the hell of it. It's not like we don't both have herpes. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone jokingly claims that there's a monster standing behind me. I'd really like us to become friends, but I think that won't happen. I'd rather not speak to you again, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, with that goat up in the Himalayas. Take care of yourself and never forget to write down the number of every donkey cart that hits you.
~ Sailor Moon. |