 |
  |
 |
Thursday, February 27, 2025
Dear insignificant other,
By the time you read this, I'll be on a murderous rampage downtown. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but you win some, you lose some - and in your case, you lose everything. I know this might seem like a sudden turn of events to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Red Cross" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, 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 nails, matches and a voodoo doll of you. I want to tell you that I think you are so incredibly full of shit that it's a miracle that you haven't exploded into a cascading rivulet of foul smelling excrements yet, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nobody, and I am the creep who has been sending you human ears every Friday for the last eight months. You like wearing my knickers on your noggin, masturbating to gardening shows, and smelling other people's fingers, 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 virtualized Sim replicas of each other. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my house is in need of some serious cleaning up. I'd really like us to become jaded, cynical and bitter in our own different ways, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, way back in the 60's during Woodstock. 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.
~ Your new ex. |