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Dear Mr. President,
By the time you read this, I'll be vandalizing Wikipedia. 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 an omitted chapter from Dante´s Divine Comedy to you, seeing as we made all those plans to grow old, fat and senile 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 cowbell. I want to tell you that I think you are the unidentified person I ran over with my truck at 10:40 P.M. yesterday, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are so fat that Jupiter orbits around you sometimes, and I am a champion pie eating finalist. 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 sewing extra limbs onto your body, 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 a Heathcliff and Catherine-like ghost couple and creep out softhearted onlookers in our restless afterlife, 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 that each day of your life may be the last as long as I'm around.
~ Anonymous. |