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Wednesday, November 5, 2025
Dear future murder victim nr. 39,
By the time you read this, I'll be buying the farm. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like the world isn't going to end on December 21, 2012 anyway. I know this might seem like a sudden turn of events to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kill your parents and claim the life insurance money, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but I thought that since I've now finally managed to track you down, it might be good manners to at least write one last good-bye letter to you before I kill you. I just need to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly. I want to tell you that I think you are ...alive and breathing, 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 your father. You like urine sample collecting, insult sword fighting, and releasing frogs into preschool kitchens, 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 I walk past the ape cages at the zoo. I'd really like us to become nihilistic Al-Qaeda terrorists and blow up everything that moves, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, five past seven on Sunday November 3, 2003 springs to mind, for instance. Take care of yourself and never forget that I know where you live, your name and what you look like, so beware.
~ 4.252.99.182. P.S. You left your Britney Spears album here yesterday. Heck, do you actually listen to that crap? D.S. |