Dear "Mr. Tiny",
By the time you read this, I'll be hiding under your bed with a butcher's knife.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but attorneys cost money, and I'm eating for two now, if you know what I mean.
I know this might seem like a sinister scheme from me to stage an "accident" and claim the life insurance policy on you (which it is)
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to hack into Pentagon's databases and expose the alien cover-up in Roswell, 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 to engage in homicidal behavior on a massive scale. It can not be corrected but I have no other way to fulfill my needs.
I want to tell you that I think you are a real pain in the ass, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are possessed by Pazuzu,
and I am not.
You like using magnifying glasses to kill aunts, harassing sheep until they explode, and belly-button sniffing,
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, but only if we're re-incarnated into each other's bodies and I get to be "you" next time. Oh yes.
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 pretend not to know each other,
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'm no longer in a coma.
Living is easy with eyes closed,
~ Mom.
P.S. You left your Britney Spears album here yesterday. Heck, do you actually listen to that crap? D.S.
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