For Harry (assuming this finds you first):
Let me begin by saying that yes, I do realize that I’m kind of a prick. The kind of prick that rather enjoys fornicating with ethereal beings, I’m afraid to admit, but a prick such as that is a prick nonetheless. And while I had originally intended to address this at a later point, I feel it is important for me to reiterate these two things. One, it is not necrophelia, if for no other reason than the uninvolvement of a corpse, and two, don’t knock it until you try it. Moving on. As I’ve replayed the events of the past several months over and over again in my head, the actions in which I am about to partake have appeared to me, after careful consideration and several chalices of mead, as the only (vaguely) rational cure for the clusterfuck predicament in which we have found ourselves to be so entangled. Still, I am determined to commit this to paper before I fully execute this Final Solution (catchy name, is it not?), in hopes that perhaps some brilliant new clarity will awaken within me before that threshold is crossed and we’ve forfeit all opportunity to fall back.
That, or the more likely scenario, whereupon I finally realize that I am hardly more than a coward myself, and that to commit this whole grand narrative to paper is little more than a sad attempt to put off the inevitable; as I’m sure you’ve caught on by now, such careful and cautious decision making as this is hardly in character for a impetuous, headstrong (but goddamn handsome) prick such as myself. Rather, procrastination has often presented itself as one of my finer traits; even my destiny seems to carry it in great quantities and right along with that digression have gone all of my noble delusions of do-goodery.
Well, shit. So much for that fantasy.
Speaking of—of, “Well, Shit,” that is—I believe that phrase holds a wonderful place of importance in the history of my reign, as well as that of our relationship. So much so that perhaps before I go I shall declare a holiday of some sort in its honor. “National ‘Well, Shit,’ Day.’ Has a swell ring to it, does it not? Granted, there’s a bit much punctuation when you spell it out like that, and unfortunately, I’ve always felt that holidays should possess names that are crisp and succinct, and while I suppose I could simply declare it “Shit Day,” I fear that it lacks the same punch. And then of course the history books, presupposing they recall anything relating to my brief tenure on the throne, will dub me with some delightfully ridiculous nickname such as, “Lord Aleksander, the Shitheaded.”
On second thought, it would perhaps be desirable to go down in history as The Shitheaded rather than The Whiney Ghostfucker.
On third thought, perhaps I win either way. Where were we?