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Monday, December 29, 2025
Dear Rocky Balboa,
By the time you read this, I'll be buying the farm. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I finally got around to reading your "poems" this morning, and I figure that this is better than a bullet in the head. I know this might seem like a very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to assassinate the Pope, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but I thought that since I've now finally managed to track you down, it might be good manners to at least write one last good-bye letter to you before I kill you. I just need nails, matches and a voodoo doll of you. I want to tell you that I think you are a Terminator sent from the future to kill me, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are heiress to the throne of Rondark, and I am on my own plane of psychological existence. You like bothering foraging bears, contemplating suicide (but always being so damned indecisive), and practicing surgery on household pests, 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, but in another life — preferably a previous one. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I walk past the ape cages at the zoo. I'd really like us to become old without ever speaking to, or thinking of, each other ever again, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, while we were three thousand miles away from each other. Take care of yourself and never forget to brush your teeth. Oh wait; you don't have any, you toothless old fuck.
P.S. Do you remember that VHS tape I showed you yesterday, the one with a towel-headed man and a well? If so, you now have six days left to live. Life's a bitch, ain't she? D.S. |