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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Thursday, February 19, 2026
Dear Gordon Freeman,
I know this might seem like I'm into polygamy or something just because I have five wives at the same time, but I'm sorry about this — sorry that I didn't take the chance to get rid of you last month, but I promise I'll make up for it the next time we meet. I just need to put this facade you've been living to an end, before I run out of script material. Ghostwriters cost a fortune. I want to tell you that I think you are the unidentified person I ran over with my truck at 10:40 P.M. yesterday, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are committed, literally, and I am suicidal. You like having sex in dumpsters, dressing up as yourself during Halloween, and smelling your fingers, 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 again, but in another life — preferably a previous one. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I dig your cold, dead body up again to have sex with you. I'd really like us to become old without ever speaking to, or thinking of, each other ever 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 that Soylent Green tastes like spinach.
~ A million monkeys hitting randomly on typewriters. |