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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear Passing Fancy,
I know this might seem like a total violation of the laws of physics to you, seeing as we made all those plans to throw the One Ring into the fires of Mount Doom in Mordor, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but another officer is at the door - I'll write more in an hour. I just need nails, matches and a voodoo doll of you. 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 a satanist, and I am Republican. You like sprinting through morning traffic while on fire, painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, and you cannot lie, the other brothers can't deny, when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in your face you get sprung, 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 Hogwarts. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me to define the word "pointless". I'd really like us to become old without ever speaking to, or thinking of, each other ever again, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before we ended up in Hell together. Take care of yourself and never forget your true place in life (which is at my feet, groveling in abject obedience).
~ The big guy, with the axe, in the cupboard, just behind you.
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