Dear "Mr. Tiny",
By the time you read this, I'll be in sunny Hawaii, drinking cheaply priced beer and completing my memoirs.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but with your breath, a letter seemed the safest option.
I know this might seem like , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to vacation in the Ivory Coast, and smuggle bits of it home to sell on the black market, 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 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 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 nothing,
and I am the creep who have been sending you human ears every Friday for the last eight months.
You like smoking banana peels, stabbing yourself with carrots, and biking against red light at rush hour,
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 each other as soon as possible, since the Internet connection on my computer isn't working, and I figured I could browse through your computer during our "date".
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 nihilistic Al-Qaeda terrorists and blow up everything that moves,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, before we ended up in Hell together.
Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you see a rainbow, someone is having gay sex.
Live long and prosper,
~ The unmentionable one.
P.S. Give me five million dollars now, or I'll scratch my own eyeballs out. Just kidding, he he he! I bet you fell for that one. D.S.
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