Dear Long John Silver,
By the time you read this, I'll be chasing your helpless grandma around with a huge fucking monster truck.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but my sadistic urges have become completely uncontrollable, and I don’t think I can see you again without having to torture you.
I know this might seem like a very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is)
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to drink the blood of every man, woman and child in Iraq, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — or at least that's what you're supposed to say in these situations. I just need more out of this relationship. Financially, emotionally, sexually, intellectually. Everythingually.
I want to tell you that I think you are exceptionally undistinguished, in a boring, non-threatening way, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are an epic fail,
and I am allergic to air.
You like playing Worms 3D, lassoing people on subways cars, and nibbling off wires to public computers at libraries and Internet cafés,
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 other people.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I must scream for help because someone has raped me (again).
I'd really like us to become Siamese twins (we might have to undergo an extensive surgery for that though),
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, even if they only lasted a few microseconds.
Take care of yourself and never forget all the people we've killed together.
I hate you,
~ That old woman next door.
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