dear_mun | (no subject)

A word to you, my thief; my enslaver from the shadows; the woman who intends to tear me from my home and my family so she might dash me to pieces against the crumbling walls of a Stepfordian nightmare that drives its inhabitants to unending despair:

I only hope Wednesday will one day aspire to such high ambitions as yours. Your husband is a lucky, lucky man.

...well, what are you waiting for? You told me stories of the rising dead, a carnival of terror and an insane, paranoid man orchestrating everything from where he's hidden himself in a child's body. I'd like to meet the fellow. Is he a golfer, by chance?