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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear <insert name here>,
I know this might seem like punch in the jaw to you, seeing as we made all those plans to slowly cannibalize each other one bite at a time, 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 cowbell. I want to tell you that I think you are a mammal, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a furry, and I am into bodysurfing. You like projectile vomiting, lassoing people on subways cars, 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 again, but only if we're re-incarnated into each other's bodies and I get to be "you" next time. Oh yes. 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 people that ignore each other in public, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before the psychatrist told me that you're just a figment of my imagination. 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.
~ Conomor the Cursed.
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