 |
  |
 |
Dear Mystery Man,
By the time you read this, I'll be vanished into thin air. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your needs are inherently less important than mine. I know this might seem like a big sick demented joke in a vortex of meaninglessness 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 more out of this relationship. Financially, emotionally, sexually, intellectually. Everythingually. I want to tell you that I think you are Jimbo, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the latest addition to my evergrowing list of people I'm planning to kill, and I am pregnant. You like groping fresh produce, scratching yourself publicly, and watching animal porn, 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 someone asks me to define the word "pointless". I'd really like us to become permanently estranged, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, nah; I'm just screwing with you. Take care of yourself and never forget that Soylent Green tastes like spinach.
~ Your alternate reality granddaughter. |