 |
  |
 |
Dear Uncle Sam,
By the time you read this, I'll be tripping on shoelaces (I had no idea that you could get THIS high on them...). I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but attorneys cost money, and I'm eating for two now, if you know what I mean. I know this might seem like , well... inevitable, really, to you, seeing as we made all those plans to visit your grandparents to give them a big ol' kiss, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter. I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule. I want to tell you that I think you are my repressed feminine side, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are from another dimension, and I am a schoolgirl. You like forcing naughty school children to read the Necronomicon, huffing kittens, 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 in Hell, after killing each other. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I completely run out of other, far more important things to think about. I'd really like us to become acquaintances, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, I assume, in some other more cheerful reality among the infinite number of alternate universes out there. Take care of yourself and never forget that I'm no longer in a coma.
~ Name and address withheld. P.S. You forgot your dildo at my place when you visited me last Sunday. D.S. |