Nolvbort, 11, 2018
To My Dearest Schizoid Lovemuffler,
I estimate there are only three years left until your re-entry to our garage, and subsequently to our beloved home/copulatory nastynest--at least, three years upon the ejaculation of this note. I know not how long it takes for my notes to arrive--I estimate you will never get a single one--envelopes cannot run or fly. I set them on the ground, and they only spin. Even as I write this one I see six envelopes spinning on the kitchen floor like some inane synchronized swimming number. Asinine little teamsters. They scream the lightest of screams, all through the night--like little cherubs being vivisected. I fear I will join them someday if the Fever sets in. My hands are longer, my teeth clammier--sometimes I find myself starting to rotate if I stand still too long. Warren warned me about the Fever. I wish I had listened to him instead of killed him. But cars don't park themselves you know.
Yesterday I found the littlest man in my bum. I hate him.
You may think, from the disgrumpled tone of this letter, that I am bad at making friends here, but I assure you I have done nothing off-pudding. My puddings are ripe and inviting. No one wants my puddings the way you wanted my puddings. Here they eat not-puddings--that is, everything that ever was, such as cats or dipsticks, but excluding puddings. You see how you are my only solace in this hellhole. I am bitter, and admittedly tired of my own ripe puddings. Send me new puddings?
My gunkspitter, my little pibbler, write back something. I have nothing to do but write to you and practice shaking my fists and yelling with my mouth closed. The envelopes spin and spin. The man from my bum is hiding somewhere in the house, and I looked everywhere for him--I only hear distant, distinctly tiny giggles, and it fills me with hotgas. He has been missing since the moment I found him. Somewhere he is naked because I found his little briefs in my toaster. They are awful. I hate him.
Festering love for you always,
Terrance B. Twisty
To My Dearest Schizoid Lovemuffler,
I estimate there are only three years left until your re-entry to our garage, and subsequently to our beloved home/copulatory nastynest--at least, three years upon the ejaculation of this note. I know not how long it takes for my notes to arrive--I estimate you will never get a single one--envelopes cannot run or fly. I set them on the ground, and they only spin. Even as I write this one I see six envelopes spinning on the kitchen floor like some inane synchronized swimming number. Asinine little teamsters. They scream the lightest of screams, all through the night--like little cherubs being vivisected. I fear I will join them someday if the Fever sets in. My hands are longer, my teeth clammier--sometimes I find myself starting to rotate if I stand still too long. Warren warned me about the Fever. I wish I had listened to him instead of killed him. But cars don't park themselves you know.
Yesterday I found the littlest man in my bum. I hate him.
You may think, from the disgrumpled tone of this letter, that I am bad at making friends here, but I assure you I have done nothing off-pudding. My puddings are ripe and inviting. No one wants my puddings the way you wanted my puddings. Here they eat not-puddings--that is, everything that ever was, such as cats or dipsticks, but excluding puddings. You see how you are my only solace in this hellhole. I am bitter, and admittedly tired of my own ripe puddings. Send me new puddings?
My gunkspitter, my little pibbler, write back something. I have nothing to do but write to you and practice shaking my fists and yelling with my mouth closed. The envelopes spin and spin. The man from my bum is hiding somewhere in the house, and I looked everywhere for him--I only hear distant, distinctly tiny giggles, and it fills me with hotgas. He has been missing since the moment I found him. Somewhere he is naked because I found his little briefs in my toaster. They are awful. I hate him.
Festering love for you always,
Terrance B. Twisty
