Dear tomorrow's headlines,
By the time you read this, I'll be very relieved.
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 a disappointing turn for the worse
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to adopt a child from a third world country for media publicity, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but I've been stuck in this nightmare world for months now, and writing this letter is my last chance of a wake up call. I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule.
I want to tell you that I think you are my personal Jiminy Cricket, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are under surveillance by the CIA,
and I am not the type of person to be running around screaming that I have a "relationship".
You like sucking off the black guy that mows your lawn, bobbing for old tires in the East River, and nibbling off wires to public computers at libraries and Internet cafés,
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 to tell my side of the story on Jerry Springer.
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, well, no... but no-one else has to know that.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I'm being entirely serious.
Ding dong, the witch is dead,
~ That Guy.
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