Dear John the Reaper

By the time you read these lines, you’ll be gone. Life goes on, right or wrong. Now the sun is dead and gone, dear John, since we’ve sung love’s last song.

 Just kidding. I heard that on an old earth sitcom from the 90s. No, not the 2080s. The 1990s. It’s ancient. It’s about this guy that’s named John like you and…

Wait, John… do you watch television? I mean, what have you been doing in darkspace for the last few decades of your life? How old are you? Do you have a girlfriend? A boyfriend? More than one of either or some combination of those? Are you married? Do you want to get married? Come get in my bed, John. I have a turian. He bites.

 This reapening business is like a bad M. Nigh Shyamalan movie. Have you seen The Crappening? Yeah, it’s like that movie but instead of getting reaped by plants we’re getting reaped. But wait, we almost did get reaped by a huge plant thing. That was pretty fucked. Mmm… Mark Wahlberg, they should clone him.

 See the way I figure is if you reaped us and didn’t make us look so goddamn gross we might like it. You might actually get women in sheer white shirts with the words REAP ME written on their boobs. And bitches love boobs. You’re not doing this thing right. I know you’re just the small guy, but this Reapening thing is bad for business.

 Speaking of boobs, have you looked at Aria’s? Man, that is a primo rack. I get to stare up at them at least once a night when I wake up on her couch after drinking too many Salarian Space Shooters. I think she wants me. Everbody wants the Shep. I’m fucking fantastic in bed. *wink*

 Let me give you a word of advice. Bunnies are like bagels, John. If you take a shot in the arm, freeze the balls of a brass monkey.

 I licked a drell once.

I should go.


 P.S. Always take the renegade action. Always.


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