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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear Cthulhu,
I know this might seem like a disappointing turn for the worse 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 — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule. I want to tell you that I think you are exceptionally undistinguished, in a boring, non-threatening way, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a card-carrying member of the Hair Club for Men, and I am stuck in an elevator and slowly succumbing to my own flatulence (since I had nothing but pea soup and brown beans this morning). You like beating yourself up in front of a mirror, harassing sheep until they explode, and smelling other people's 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 on different continents. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I sharpen my hunting knife out in the garage. I'd really like us to become born-again strangers, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before we ended up in Hell together. Take care of yourself and never forget that I have your son and will kill him unless you transfer five million dollars to my bank account by next Thursday.
~ (Jenny is being disconnected, so don't try calling).
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