Dear John letter

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Sunday, May 31, 2020  

Dear Freak of the Week,

By the time you read this, I'll be singing show tunes in the shower while members of the New York Yankees take turns exfoliating my buttocks with a loofah sponge. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I finally got around to reading your "poems" this morning, and I figure that this is better than a bullet in the head.

I know this might seem like a big sick demented joke in a vortex of meaninglessness to you, seeing as we made all those plans to terrorize the elderly couple that lives down the road, 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 a dirty magazine, my right hand and a toilet paper — that's all it takes, really.

I want to tell you that I think you are the unidentified person I ran over with my truck at 10:40 P.M. yesterday, 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 pregnant. You like forcing naughty school children to read the Necronomicon, pretending to be Captain America, and recommending suicide as the only viable cure for hiccups, 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 just as long as you are willing to spend half your life hanging by your pinkie toes, for that's the type of torture I have planned for you.. 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 partners in crime and steal candy from helpless little kids, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, up until the effect of the morphine wore off.

Take care of yourself and never forget how much lower your reputation will slip as soon as I publish this on my blog.

Living is easy with eyes closed,

~ The unmentionable one.

P.S. You're fired! D.S.