Dear psychiatrist,
By the time you read this, I'll be on Pluto, having much more fun than you.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but to be honest, I'd be more sorry if I were to stay.
I know this might seem like karmic kannibalism
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Red Cross" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, 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 length from you than I'm getting, and let's face it — you're shrinking with age.
I want to tell you that I think you are exceptionally undistinguished, in a boring, non-threatening way, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the flesh and blood scion of the Devil himself,
and I am the one who slipped rohypnol into your Bloody Mary last month.
You like playing Worms 3D, scratching yourself publicly, and watching DaxFlame on YouTube while singing "Lucy in the Sky of Diamonds",
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 on different continents.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me to define the word "promiscuous".
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, 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 to write down the number of every donkey cart that hits you.
go eat shit fuckers,
~ Tiddles.
P.S. Do you know what the blue rhino said to the green elephant? If so, write it to me in return, because I don't. D.S.
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