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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear voices that I hear sometimes in my head,
I know this might seem like a kick in the nuts 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 — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter. I just need more length from you than I'm getting, and let's face it — you're shrinking with age. I want to tell you that I think you are strangely charismatic, considering your freakishly odd appearance, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nothing, and I am angry. You like trying to fit inside sewer drains, gay midgets, and igniting your own fart, 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 other species. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I assassinate an infidel. I'd really like us to become friends, but I think that won't happen. I rather not speak to you again, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before the psychatrist told me that you're just a figment of my imagination. Take care of yourself and never forget to double-bag "Uncle Willy" from now on.
~ Anonymous. |