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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear Sir/Madam,
I know this might seem like a sudden change to you, seeing as we made all those plans to adopt a child from a third world country for media publicity, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter. I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule. I want to tell you that I think you are not the worst lover I ever had, but that would be a bald-faced lie, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nothing, and I am addicted to raspberry muffins. You like urine sample collecting, playing with your pasta meals until it looks like the Flying Spaghetti Monster before proceeding to eat it, and accusing comatose patients of lazyness, 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 on Friday and then try to kill each other through strangulation (or with knives) just for fun. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need a good laugh. I'd really like us to become born-again strangers, 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 that each day of your life may be the last as long as I'm around.
~ (Jenny is being disconnected, so don't try calling).
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