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Sunday, November 2, 2025
Dear me, I do believe I've forgotten your name,
By the time you read this, I'll be composing a concerto for 3 bassoons and a trombone. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but enough is enough. I've HAD it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane! I know this might seem like a Wikipedia article to you, seeing as we made all those plans to live together in happily unwedded bliss, or a reasonable facsimile, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain intoxicated. I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule. I want to tell you that I think you are ...exceedingly punctual, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the disembodied head of Patrick Duffy, and I am vastly more intelligent than that. You like navel lint collecting, masturbating to gardening shows, and belly-button sniffing, 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 everyone else in the world, just to find out the answer — or at least I should, you have no hope on that score. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I've consumed rohypnol and Vodka. I'd really like us to become the de facto lead couple in one of those crappy never ending sitcoms that plays annoying canned laughter after every damn sentence, be it funny or not, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, pretending we're screwing someone else. Take care of yourself and never forget that I'm being entirely serious.
~ The Pope. |