 |
  |
 |
Dear Captain Blackbeard,
By the time you read this, I'll be vandalizing Wikipedia. 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 Wikipedia article to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kill your parents and claim the life insurance money, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain intoxicated. I just need to engage in homicidal behavior on a massive scale. It can not be corrected but I have no other way to fulfill my needs. I want to tell you that I think you are not the worst lover I ever had, but that would be a bald-faced lie, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a balloon animal fan, and I am an amateur weightlifter. You like caressing lamp accessories, dating circus midgets, 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 sometime in the next millennia. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever the police ask me where I bought the stuff. I'd really like us to become slowly solidified into a kind of buttery jell, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, during my opiate daydream earlier today, after which I woke up to the cold and harsh reality again. Take care of yourself and never forget your true place in life (which is at my feet, groveling in abject obedience).
~ The Speaking Clock. P.S. Now I have a machine gun. Ho ho ho. D.S. |