Dear Mickey Finn,
By the time you read this, I'll be stranded on a deserted island.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but uh, well... now what was it again... (God dammit) Oh, yes, I was going to write to you because... because... ummmhhh... (hang on a minute)... I seem to have lost my memory so I'll just improvise a letter with no true meaning from now on, if you don't mind (which you'll probably do).
I know this might seem like an insidious scheme to dominate the universe
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to visit your grand-parents to give them a big ol' kiss, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. I just need nails, matches and a voodoo doll of you.
I want to tell you that I think you are so incredibly full of shit that it's a miracle that you haven't exploded into a cascading rivulet of foul smelling excrements yet, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the disembodied head of Patrick Duffy,
and I am a member of a religion that has repeatedly confirmed that people like that are going to burn in hell.
You like flaying lambs, gay midgets, and gas tungsten arc welding,
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 in Hell, after killing each other.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need someone to help me move.
I'd really like us to become old without ever speaking to, or thinking of, each other ever again,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, which lasted until you unexpectedly woke up from your coma.
Take care of yourself and never forget to have your pets sprayed and neutered.
That'll teach you,
~ Brother Eggs-over-easy.
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