Dear Color of Death,

I don't really know how to tell you this, but I'll join the monastery. I think I realized it when your dog ran amok at the mental hospital and I saw you sit on the crazy monk. I'm sure you're senile enough to understand that Santa doesn't exist. I'm returning the couch cushions to you, but I'll keep the oil stocks as a memory. You should also know that I was interviewed by the Times about eggplant-fetishism .

Go burn,
Penny Lane