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Dear John letter
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Dear psychiatrist,
By the time you read this, I'll be converting my house into an undead bastion.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I'm not getting any younger, and you're not getting any richer.
I know this might seem like a total violation of the laws of physics
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kidnap a first-grade school class together, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter. I just need to put this facade you've been living to an end, before I run out of script material. Ghostwriters cost a fortune.
I want to tell you that I think you are really quite adequate, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are one of Evil Bert's sinister henchmen,
and I am on my own plane of psychological existence.
You like traveling to other cities and show up uninvited at total strangers birthday parties, talking like Captain Kirk, and genitally piercing unsuspecting strangers in unemployment line queues,
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 our respective parents, if only so we can feel unfaithful again.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I find another piece of Titanic buried in my backyard.
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, pretending we're screwing someone else.
Take care of yourself and never forget to brush your teeth. Oh wait; you don't have any, you toothless old fuck.
Toodles,
~ Lara Bingle.
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