Dear future amnesiac self,
By the time you read this, I'll be relocated to a secret tropical hide-out, drinking fruit drinks and living a life in luxury for the money I drained from your bank account this morning (so long sucker, HAHAHAHAHA!!!).
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your feelings are inherently less valuable than mine.
I know this might seem like , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Red Cross" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain intoxicated. I just need more sex, and for longer than the 3 minutes and 2 inches you're able to provide... or was it the other way around? Anyway...
I want to tell you that I think you are the Mr. Hyde to my Doctor Jekyll, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the only one in the world who actually thinks Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer are funny,
and I am fucked up for life after 15 years of heavy heroin abuse.
You like urine sample collecting, harassing sheep until they explode, and dissecting frogs with butterknives,
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 Friday and then try to kill each other through strangulation (or with knives) just for fun.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need another scullery maid.
I'd really like us to become road sweepers or something,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, assuming that "good times" is just another way of saying "total suckage".
Take care of yourself and never forget that Soylent Green tastes like spinach.
Stop by sometime,
~ The Samaritans.
P.S. Remember to drink the nut-flavored tea I poured you today. D.S.
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