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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear Jimbo,
I know this might seem like , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic to you, seeing as we made all those plans to assassinate the Pope, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but I thought that since I've now finally managed to track you down, it might be good manners to at least write one last good-bye letter to you before I kill you. I just need need need need need... well; I can't quite remember. I want to tell you that I think you are on my long list of middle-rated and easily forgotten ex's, 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 not. You like imitating 50s actors while shoe shopping, bobbing for old tires in the East River, and filling guinea pigs with helium, 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 at Gotthard Pass. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I dig your cold, dead body up again to have sex with you. 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, at least when we turned the clock forward a few hours and then pretended that something nice happened during that time (whereas nothing at all happened, really). Take care of yourself and never forget your true place in life (which is at my feet, groveling in abject obedience).
~ Your Siamese twin. |