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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear pointless entity,
I know this might seem like a Wikipedia article to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kill your parents and claim the life insurance money, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — or at least that's what you're supposed to say in these situations. I just need to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly. I want to tell you that I think you are my repressed masculine side, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are an epic fail, and I am stuck in an elevator and slowly succumbing to my own flatulence (since I had nothing but pea soup and brown beans this morning). You like bathing in gasoline, pushing unsuspecting tourists off from very high places and watch them fall, and watching DaxFlame on YouTube while singing "Lucy in the Sky of Diamonds", 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 just as long as you are willing to spend half your life hanging by your pinkie toes, for that's the type of torture I have planned for you.. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I make additions to my personal list of people I intend to kill. I'd really like us to become that kind of insufferable cinemagoers who've read the plot in advance and sits and yell out spoilers throughout the film to the annoyance of everyone else, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least during those many hours of drug and alcohol induced unconsciousness. Take care of yourself and never forget that I know where you buried the body, and won't hesitate to contact police should the need arise.
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