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Monday, November 17, 2025
Dear Gordon Freeman,
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 with your breath, a letter seemed the safest option. I know this might seem like , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic to you, seeing as we made all those plans to burn down our neighbor's house, 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 a dirty magazine, my right hand and a toilet paper — that's all it takes, really. I want to tell you that I think you are not as good looking as your MySpace photo made it appear, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Sagittarius, and I am a Mousketeer. You like other men, recording your own toilet visits and sharing it on file sharing networks as MP3's wrongfully named as famous songs, and recommending suicide as the only viable cure for hiccups, 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 I need to tell my side of the story on Jerry Springer. I'd really like us to become jaded, cynical and bitter in our own different ways, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, which lasted until you unexpectedly woke up from your coma. Take care of yourself and never forget that I know where you buried the body, and won't hesitate to contact police should the need arise.
~ The Speaking Clock. P.S. They're coming to take me away! D.S. |