Dear future murder victim nr. 43,
By the time you read this, I'll be omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but you weren't at home, and anyways I forgot to bring my AK with me.
I know this might seem like a sudden change
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to buy a million rubber ducks for all our retirement savings, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — it's just a shame I waited so long to do it, and wasted so much of my valuable time. I just need a dirty magazine, my right hand and a toilet paper — that's all it takes, really.
I want to tell you that I think you are a Cylon imposter, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a card-carrying member of the Hair Club for Men,
and I am on drugs.
You like flicking staples at livestock, painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, and recommending suicide as the only viable cure for hiccups,
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 as soon as possible, since the Internet connection on my computer isn't working, and I figured I could browse through your computer during our "date".
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I see someone wearing radish earrings and a butterbeer cork necklace.
I'd really like us to become that kind of insufferable cinemagoers who've read the plot in advance and sit and yell out spoilers throughout the film to the annoyance of everyone else,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, well, no... but no-one else has to know that.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I still have your diary and can at any time mail the most embarrassing parts (like the chapter about the summer of '04) of it to The New York Times.
Toodles,
~ Your favorite drugdealer.
Featured Article (read another featured article)
