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Wednesday, October 15, 2025
Dear future murder victim nr. 57,
By the time you read this, I'll be composing a concerto for 3 bassoons and a trombone. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I know what you're thinking: "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk? I know this might seem like a disappointing turn for the worse to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push you into the sea tied to a large brick, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — sorry that I didn't take the chance to get rid of you last month, but I promise I'll make up for it the next time we meet. I just need need need need need... well; I can't quite remember. 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 the demi-duchess of Kumswalla, and I am a grue and will certainly eat you the next time we meet. You like having sex in dumpsters, lassoing people on subway cars, and smelling your fingers, 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 different continents. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever and wherever. Just joshing you. You suck. I'd really like us to become a Heathcliff and Catherine-like ghost couple and creep out softhearted onlookers in our restless afterlife, 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 to brush your teeth. Oh wait; you don't have any, you toothless old fuck.
~ Your split personality. P.S. Give me five million dollars now, or I'll scratch my own eyeballs out. Just kidding, he he he! I bet you fell for that one. D.S. |