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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear John Bull,
I know this might seem like a bit of a shock to you, seeing as we made all those plans to spend at least more than two hours together, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter. 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 a real pain in the ass, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Sagittarius, and I am angry. You like navel lint collecting, 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 on Friday and then try to kill each other through strangulation (or with knives) just for fun. 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 people that pretend they never dated, 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 the world is going to end unless you enter the code "4 8 15 16 23 42" into the micro-computer every 108:th minute.
~ Princess Peach. |