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Dear Rocky Balboa,
By the time you read this, I'll be a mother. 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 , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic to you, seeing as we made all those plans to hack into Pentagon's databases and expose the alien cover-up in Roswell, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — or at least that's what you're supposed to say in these situations. I just need to finish that annoying Zork game on that Uncyclopedia website I told you about yesterday (it's driving me crazy, it's like no matter what you do, you'll ALWAYS end up being eaten by a grue!). I want to tell you that I think you are like a senile old parrot, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a blathering windbag who needs a nice big cup of shut the fuck up, and I am your father. You like caressing lamp accessories, dating circus midgets, 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 again someday, but only if you go in for surgery and get your brain replaced. And your nose. Or to keep it simple, ask them to change everything but your name. Or have them change that as well, unless doing so would complicate billing. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me to define the word "promiscuous". I'd really like us to become friends, but I think that won't happen. I'd rather not speak to you again, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, pretending we're screwing someone else. Take care of yourself and never forget our honeymoon at Hogwarts.
~ Princess Peach. |