Dear psychiatrist,
By the time you read this, I'll be aiming at you with a sniper rifle.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I don't think I could restrain myself from laughing about what I saw last night.
I know this might seem like a sudden change
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to burn down our neighbor's house, 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 more cowbell.
I want to tell you that I think you are a Terminator sent from the future to kill me, 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 the main character in a really crappy pulp horror novel about rabid watermelons.
You like stomping on turtles after eating mushrooms, big butts, and sewing extra limbs onto your body,
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 other planets.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I've poured rohypnol into your cocktail again.
I'd really like us to become the de facto lead couple in one of those crappy never ending sitcoms that plays annoying canned laughter after every damn sentence, be it funny or not,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, at least before we met.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I have your son and will kill him unless you transfer five million dollars to my bank account by next Thursday.
Living is easy with eyes closed,
~ Brother Eggs-over-easy.
Featured Article (read another featured article)
