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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear Mystery Man,
I know this might seem like a kick in the nuts to you, seeing as we made all those plans to alphabetize our combined compact disc collections someday, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — mostly. I just need more out of this relationship. Financially, emotionally, sexually, intellectually. Everythingually. I want to tell you that I think you are a real pain in the ass, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the disembodied head of Patrick Duffy, and I am addicted to raspberry muffins. You like flicking staples at livestock, big butts, and igniting your own fart, 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 — oh wait, I meant to write "hate" of course. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever the hypnotism I'm paying for wears off. I'd really like us to become partners in crime and steal candy from helpless little kids, 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 to double-bag "Uncle Willy" from now on.
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