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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear Penis (with life support system attachment),
I know this might seem like a sudden turn of events to you, seeing as we made all those plans to blow up the moon together, 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 out of this relationship. Financially, emotionally, sexually, intellectually. Everythingually. I want to tell you that I think you are dumb as a rock, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are wanted in nineteen states, and I am a mother of two-and-a-half. You like having sex in dumpsters, masturbating to gardening shows, and releasing frogs into preschool kitchens, 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 our own mirror images. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I spy on you and your secret lover with the telescope from the treehouse across the street. I'd really like us to become that kind of insufferable cinemagoers who've read the plot in advance and sits and yell out spoilers throughout the film to the annoyance of everyone else, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, unless I was just dreaming. Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you masturbate, Friedrich Nietzsche kills God.
~ DJ Pie Saftey. |