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Wednesday, September 08, 2004

I Bear the Weight of a Cold Shoulder Not My Own

Mr. Cope, I am painting a portrait of you. I feel compelled to inform you that I will apply a coat of self-preserving real-time cyanide to the finished product. That way, when your ice-cold neglect makes me weep so hard that I need to end it all, I will run to your portrait and lick your wicked black mustaches. That way, my demise will be considered murder, rather than suicide. Given my intense and long-standing lording over you, it could even be classified regicide. I think the authorities will agree with me. They usually do. You are indeed a very bad man. You are a hard-hearted poisoner. You deserve the dankest gaol.

P.S. Do you want this portrait to age in your stead? Let me know ASAP. I'm not sure I can recalibrate it after I apply the cyanide.

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