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Saturday, February 22, 2025
By the time you read this, I'll be aiming at you with a sniper rifle. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but seeing you without makeup made homosexuality suddenly seem very feasible to me. I know this might seem like a total violation of the laws of physics to you, seeing as we made all those plans to blow up the moon together, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — it's just a shame I waited so long to do it, and wasted so much of my valuable time. I just need more space. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan is sounding pretty nice to me right now. 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 a good-for-nothing crack whore, and I am worried about it. You like attacking clergymen, recording your own toilet visits and sharing it on file sharing networks as MP3's wrongfully named as famous songs, and igniting your own fart, 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 virtualized Sim replicas of each other. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me if I've ever picked up a hitchhiker I really regret picking up. 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, five past seven on Sunday November 3, 2003 springs to mind, for instance. Take care of yourself and never forget that you've only got one bullet left, it's going to take more than that to stop me.
~ (Jenny is being disconnected, so don't try calling). |