Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Dear voices that I hear sometimes in my head,
By the time you read this, I'll be in Castle Greyscale, having much more fun than you. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I have stolen three nuclear warheads and am planning to commit suicide by detonating them (in midtown New York, just to spice things up).
I know this might seem like a bit of a shock to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push the boundaries of human genetics past the point of good taste by procreating, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — it's just a shame I waited so long to do it, and wasted so much of my valuable time. I just need more space. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan is sounding pretty nice to me right now.
I want to tell you that I think you are composed mainly of various carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, phosphorus, iron, copper, magnesium, sulfur, calcium, potassium, iodine, sodium and silicon compounds (well, duh...), but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a satanist, and I am a Mousketeer. You like smoking banana peels, stabbing yourself with carrots, 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 everyone else in the world, just to find out the answer — or at least I should, you have no hope on that score. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my herpes sores erupt.
I'd really like us to become bitter enemies, constantly plotting each other's downfall until one of us (preferably me) succeeds, giving that person (again, preferably me) the opportunity to engage in stereotypical maniacal laughter, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least while we were in separate cells at the police station.
Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you masturbate, Friedrich Nietzsche kills God.
Live long and prosper,
~ Name and address withheld.
P.S. I think I ran over your mom with my car earlier today. At least I think it was her, but there wasn't much left to identify... D.S.