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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear disembodied head,
I know this might seem like a very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to run the 3rd marathon around the world together (tied together, that is), but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — sorry that I didn't take the chance to get rid of you last month, but I promise I'll make up for it the next time we meet. 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 going to find out that the anthrax I've contaminated this letter with might be quite unpleasant once it's started to take hold on you, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are heiress to the throne of Rondark, and I am scared of donuts. You like using magnifying glasses to kill aunts, painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, and disturbing annual sci-fi conventions with whistles and cymbals, 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 each other sometime in the next millennia. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I assassinate an infidel. I'd really like us to become nihilistic Al-Qaeda terrorists and blow up everything that moves, 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 to write down the number of every donkey cart that hits you.
~ Jane. |