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Dear tomorrow's headlines,
By the time you read this, I'll be at the Prancing Pony, waiting for the wizard to arrive. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I don't think I could restrain myself from laughing about what I saw last night. I know this might seem like I'm into polygamy or something just because I have five wives at the same time, but I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. I just need nails, matches and a voodoo doll of you. I want to tell you that I think you are going to find out that the anthrax I've contaminated this letter with might be quite unpleasant once it's started to take hold on you, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Sagittarius, and I am vastly more intelligent than that. You like having sex in dumpsters, harassing sheep until they explode, and arguing with the voices only you can hear over dinner plans, 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 other planets. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "two", "inch" and "penis" in my presence. I'd really like us to become that kind of insufferable cinemagoers who've read the plot in advance and sit and yell out spoilers throughout the film to the annoyance of everyone else, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least before we met. Take care of yourself and never forget that the world is going to end unless you enter the code "4 8 15 16 23 42" into the micro-computer every 108th minute.
~ The Pope. P.S. They're coming to take me away! D.S. |