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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear Freak of the Week,
I know this might seem like a sinister scheme from me to stage an "accident" and claim the life insurance policy on you (which it is) 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 — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need more length from you than I'm getting, and let's face it — you're shrinking with age. I want to tell you that I think you are a Terminator sent from the future to kill me, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a pedophile, and I am hypersexual. You like flicking staples at livestock, harassing sheep until they explode, and writing love letters to Bob Saget, 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 I smell that characteristic composite stench of rotten eggs, garlic and blue cheese again. I'd really like us to become a Heathcliff and Catherine-like ghost couple and creep out softhearted onlookers in our restless afterlife, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before I decided to read through your diary last week. Take care of yourself and never forget where you leave the keys. Honestly, those things are are a PAIN to find again.
~ The unmentionable one.
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