 |
  |
 |
Friday, October 10, 2025
Dear Santa,
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 to be honest, I'd be more sorry if I were to stay. I know this might seem like a total violation of the laws of physics 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 — mostly. I just need more sex, and for longer than the 3 minutes and 2 inches you're able to provide... or was it the other way around? Anyway... I want to tell you that I think you are the worst Tetris player ever, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are scared of sheep, and I am the main character in a really crappy pulp horror novel about rabid watermelons. You like guessing the weight of elderly women, bobbing for old tires in the East River, and feeding rice to sea gulls, 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 Friday and then try to kill each other through strangulation (or with knives) just for fun. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever Saturn orbits Pluto. 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, at least during those many hours of drug and alcohol induced unconsciousness. Take care of yourself and never forget the hard work of the ten million chained up monkeys with typewriters that wrote this letter.
~ That old woman next door. P.S. I think I ran over your mom with my car earlier today. At least I think it was her, but there wasn't much left to identify... D.S. |