Dear Cthulhu,
By the time you read this, I'll be hiding inside a closet much closer too you than you'd feel comfortable with.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but time is money, and according to your most current bank statement you have insufficient funds to purchase additional time credits with me.
I know this might seem like a total violation of the laws of physics
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to buy a million rubber ducks for all our retirement savings, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain high. I just need more cowbell.
I want to tell you that I think you are not as good looking as your MySpace photo made it appear, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Sagittarius,
and I am Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.
You like bungee jumping from church steeples, recording your own toilet visits and sharing it on file sharing networks as MP3's wrongfully named as famous songs, and smelling your fingers,
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 just as long as you are willing to spend half your life hanging by your pinkie toes, for that's the type of torture I have planned for you..
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "anorexia", "bulimia" and/or "starvation" in my presence.
I'd really like us to become partners in crime and steal candy from helpless little kids,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, before the psychatrist told me that you're just a figment of my imagination.
Take care of yourself and never forget to write down the number of every donkey cart that hits you.
Affectionally yours,
~ George Philipp Telemann.
P.S. I am your father. Search your feelings - you know it to be true. D.S.
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