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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear Cthulhu,
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 buy a million rubber ducks for all our retirement savings, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain intoxicated. I just need more time alone. No... More time away from you. All of it, really. Yeah. That's what I mean to say. I want to tell you that I think you are a fucking ugly bitch, and I want to stab you to death, and then play around with your blood, 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 all that and more. You like using magnifying glasses to kill aunts, gay midgets, and arguing with the voices only you can hear over dinner plans, 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 other people. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I wiretap your telephone calls. I'd really like us to become the de facto lead couple in one of those crappy never ending sitcoms that plays annoying canned laughter after every damn sentence, be it funny or not, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least while we were in separate cells at the police station. Take care of yourself and never forget that each day of your life may be the last as long as I'm around.
~ Your new ex. |