Dear Penis (with life support system attachment),
By the time you read this, I'll be sneaking destroying angels into the button mushroom meal you'll be served within 5 minutes.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I finally got around to reading your "poems" this morning, and I figure that this is better than a bullet in the head.
I know this might seem like a big sick demented joke in a vortex of meaninglessness
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to blow up the moon together, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need to engage in homicidal behavior on a massive scale. It can not be corrected but I have no other way to fulfill my needs.
I want to tell you that I think you are a virgin, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are heiress to the throne of Rondark,
and I am addicted to raspberry muffins.
You like laying on the floor with all the lights off, bobbing for old tires in the East River, and recommending suicide as the only viable cure for hiccups,
and I'm just not sure I can ever share your joy in those things.
How can two people so different ever make it for the long haul? I think we should date when Hell freezes over.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need someone to help me move.
I'd really like us to become old without ever speaking to, or thinking of, each other ever again,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, assuming that "good times" is just another way of saying "total suckage".
Take care of yourself and never forget that I know where you live, your name and what you look like, so beware.
Auf wiedersehen,
~ Your future self.
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