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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Saturday, January 31, 2026
Dear disembodied head,
I know this might seem like a slap in the face to you, seeing as we made all those plans to grow old, fat and senile together, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. I just need to go to the moon or a gay retared place. I want to tell you that I think you are a mammal, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the demi-duchess of Kumswalla, and I am stuck in an elevator with Alessandra Ambrosio (OK, the first part is true, the second is just me daydreaming). You like wearing my knickers on your noggin, recording your own toilet visits and sharing it on file sharing networks as MP3's wrongfully named as famous songs, and sewing extra limbs onto your body, 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 the police ask me where I bought the stuff. I'd really like us to become people that ignore each other in public, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, while we were three thousand miles away from each other. Take care of yourself and never forget that your psychiatrist thinks you're a jerk too.
~ Your sister. |