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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear "Mr. It was only a dream" (as my psychiatrist insists I refer to you these days) ,
I know this might seem like a big sick demented joke in a vortex of meaninglessness to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Save the Children" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — mostly. I just need a dirty magazine, my right hand and a toilet paper — that's all it takes, really. I want to tell you that I think you are a..well...um...okay, nice...yeah...maybe, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a blathering windbag who needs a nice big cup of shut the fuck up, and I am your Siamese twin. You like bungee jumping from church steeples, insult sword fighting, and nibbling off wires to public computers at libraries and Internet cafés, 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 when Hell freezes over. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I want to, which isn't often. I'd really like us to become people that pretend not to know each other, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, way back in the 60's during Woodstock. Take care of yourself and never forget that I know where you live, your name and what you look like, so beware.
~ The Joker. |