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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear Miss Chernobyl,
I know this might seem like a cowardly way of telling you that I ran over your mom with fatal outcome just 10 minutes ago to you, seeing as we made all those plans to drink the blood of every man, woman and child in Iraq, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need to enter "4 8 15 16 23 42" into my command prompt every 108th minute. I want to tell you that I think you are the Mr. Hyde to my Doctor Jekyll, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are committed, literally, and I am not. You like playing Worms 3D, lassoing people on subways cars, and arguing with the voices only you can hear over dinner plans, 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 again someday, but only if you go in for surgery and get you brain replaced. And your nose. Or to keep it simple, ask them to change everything but your name. Or have them change that as well, unless doing so would complicate billing. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "obesity", "fat" and/or "pig" in my presence. I'd really like us to become slowly solidified into a kind of buttery jell, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, while we were three thousand miles away from each other. Take care of yourself and never forget that I still have your diary and can at any time mail the most embarrassing parts (like the chapter about the summer of -04) of it to The New York Times.
~ Norman Bates. |