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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear Miss Chernobyl,
I know this might seem like a very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to slowly cannibalize each other one bite at a time, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — or at least that's what you're supposed to say in these situations. I just need to plot your murder for another week and I'm set to go. I want to tell you that I think you are like a senile old parrot, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a blathering windbag who needs a nice big cup of shut the fuck up, and I am that lonely obsessed stalker who refused to just settle for your autograph. You like flicking staples at livestock, playing with your pasta meals until it looks like the Flying Spaghetti Monster before proceeding to eat it, and making faces at babies until they cry, 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 for the hell of it. It's not like we don't both have herpes. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "anorexia", "bulimia" and/or "starvation" in my presence. I'd really like us to become partners in crime and steal candy from helpless little kids, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least before we met. Take care of yourself and never forget that time when I showed everyone a picture of your penis. That was funny.
~ Quinn the eskimo.
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