Dear psychiatrist,
By the time you read this, I'll be doing my "happy dance" naked, on the side of the M25 motorway.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but seeing you without makeup made homosexuality suddenly seem very feasible to me.
I know this might seem like a kick in the nuts
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to slowly cannibalize each other one bite at a time, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but another officer is at the door - I'll write more in an hour. I just need more sex, and for longer than the 3 minutes and 2 inches you're able to provide... or was it the other way around? Anyway...
I want to tell you that I think you are going to get coal for Christmas this year, being as naughty as you are, 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 bothering foraging bears, stabbing yourself with carrots, and gas tungsten arc welding,
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'm pissed off.
I'd really like us to become friends, but I think that won't happen. I'd rather not speak to you again,
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 that every time you masturbate, Friedrich Nietzsche kills God.
Have a nice day,
~ The daemon swineherd in the twilit grotto.
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