 |
  |
 |
By the time you read this, I'll be held at gunpoint by my twisted aunt Maggie for stealing cookies from the cookie jar. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I have stolen three nuclear warheads and am planning to commit suicide by detonating them (in midtown New York, just to spice things up). I know this might seem like a slap in the face to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kill your parents and claim the life insurance money, 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 men, on some kind of rotating schedule. I want to tell you that I think you are evil and manipulative, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a pederast, and I am pregnant. You like using magnifying glasses to kill aunts, putting things on springs, and filling guinea pigs with helium, 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 people without AIDS. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I spy on your naked self with the hidden camera I've installed in your shower stall. I'd really like us to become born-again strangers, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, or so we'll pretend. Take care of yourself and never forget where you leave the keys. Honestly, those things are are a PAIN to find again.
~ The Pope. P.S. You're fired! D.S. |