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Dear Regan MacNeil,
By the time you read this, I'll be in pitched battle with God and all his host of angels. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but time is money, and according to your most current bank statement you have insufficient funds to purchase additional time credits with me. 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 — but if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter. I just need more time alone. No... More time away from you. All of it, really. Yeah. That's what I mean to say. 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 one of Evil Bert's sinister henchmen, and I am the main character in a really crappy pulp horror novel about rabid watermelons. You like to sabotage ice hockey matches by repeatedly throwing out extra pucks onto the rink, putting things on springs, and you cannot lie, the other brothers can't deny, when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in your face you get sprung, 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 sometime in the next millennia. 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 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, way back in the 60's during Woodstock. Take care of yourself and never forget your true place in life (which is at my feet, groveling in abject obedience).
~ Your former sister-in-law. P.S. You're fired! D.S. |