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Tuesday, February 4, 2025
Dear Flavour of the Month,
By the time you read this, I'll be sent to the cornfield. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your needs are inherently less important than mine. I know this might seem like a total violation of the laws of physics to you, seeing as we made all those plans to visit Easter Island and go on an egg hunt, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — mostly. I just need more length from you than I'm getting, and let's face it — you're shrinking with age. I want to tell you that I think you are not the worst lover I ever had, but that would be a bald-faced lie, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a balloon animal fan, and I am addicted to raspberry muffins. You like to sabotage ice hockey matches by repeatedly throwing out extra pucks onto the rink, pretending to be Captain America, and belly-button sniffing, 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 Saturn orbits Pluto. I'd really like us to become slowly solidified into a kind of buttery jell, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, during my opiate daydream earlier today, after which I woke up to the cold and harsh reality again. Take care of yourself and never forget that I have your son and will kill him unless you transfer five million dollars to my bank account by next Thursday.
~ The Joker. |