 |
  |
 |
Sunday, November 30, 2025
Dear Acquaintance,
By the time you read this, I'll be in ur pet store, huffing ur kittenz. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I know what you're thinking: "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk? I know this might seem like an omitted chapter from Dante´s Divine Comedy to you, seeing as we made all those plans to drink the blood of every man, woman and child in Iraq, 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 cowbell. I want to tell you that I think you are a mammal, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the only one in the world who actually thinks Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer are funny, and I am into streaking. You like attacking clergymen, painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, and finding out a random victim's e-mail address and subscribe it to every advertisement letter you can find, 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 and wherever. Just joshing you. You suck. I'd really like us to become snobbish self-styled intellectuals who always change the subject to 19th century Russian literature in order to look smart everytime a third person approaches, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, or so we'll pretend. Take care of yourself and never forget all the people we've killed together.
~ Your alternate reality granddaughter. |