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Dear disembodied head,
By the time you read this, I'll be converting my house into an undead bastion. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but you win some, you lose some - and in your case, you lose everything. I know this might seem like a slap in the face to you, seeing as we made all those plans to enter the Guinness Book of World Records by the becoming the first couple ever to watch "The Cure for Insomnia" without falling asleep, 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 nails, matches and a voodoo doll of you. I want to tell you that I think you are ...unusually odorous, in a good way... sometimes, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are heiress to the throne of Rondark, and I am all that and more. You like stomping on turtles after eating mushrooms, juggling chainsaws, and gas tungsten arc welding, 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 but only so I'll get another shot at killing your for real. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I desperately try another time traveling session to prevent the sad chain of events that led me to meet you in the first place. I'd really like us to become snobbish self-styled intellectuals who always change the subject to 19th century Russian literature in order to look smart everytime a third person approaches, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before the psychiatrist told me that you're just a figment of my imagination. Take care of yourself and never forget that the xenomorph implanted in your chest is going to erupt and kill you violently within two hours.
~ That old woman next door. P.S. I am your father. Search your feelings - you know it to be true. D.S. |