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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear Mulder and Scully,
I know this might seem like a crappy thing to do to you, seeing as we made all those plans to grow old, fat and senile together, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — or at least that's what you're supposed to say in these situations. I just need to go to the moon or a gay retared place. I want to tell you that I think you are like a senile old parrot, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the flesh and blood scion of the Devil himself, and I am the creep who have been sending you human ears every Friday for the last eight months. You like urine sample collecting, bobbing for old tires in the East River, and recommending suicide as the only viable cure for hiccups, 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 our own mirror images. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I see a couple screaming at each other in public. I'd really like us to become an African-American comedy duo, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before the psychatrist told me that you were my split personality all along. Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you see a rainbow, someone is having gay sex.
~ 4.252.99.182.
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