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Wednesday, January 22, 2025
Dear Prisoner nr. 840,
By the time you read this, I'll be in midtown London on a massive shopping spree with your credit card that I kind of "borrowed" earlier today (the pincode is 8391, isn't it?). I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your voice is so grating that another few phone calls from you would have left me deaf for life by the end of the year. I know this might seem like a sudden turn of events 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 high. I just need to find someone who is male and breathes — and quickly. I want to tell you that I think you are not the worst lover I ever had, but that would be a bald-faced lie, 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 a mother of two-and-a-half. You like smoking banana peels, contemplating suicide (but always being so damned indecisive), and accusing comatose patients of laziness, 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 each other as soon as possible, since the Internet connection on my computer isn't working, and I figured I could browse through your computer during our "date". But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I must scream for help because someone has raped me (again). I'd really like us to become people that pretend they never dated, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, I think. Take care of yourself and never forget the hard work of the ten million chained up monkeys with typewriters that wrote this letter.
~ Your intestinal parasite. |