Dear Bob,
By the time you read this, I'll be banned from the Internet.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your voice is so grating that another few phone calls from you would have left me deaf for life by the end of the year.
I know this might seem like an insidious scheme to dominate the universe
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push you into the sea tied to a large brick, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — sorry that I didn't take the chance to get rid of you last month, but I promise I'll make up for it the next time we meet. I just need a bit of a laugh.
I want to tell you that I think you are ...more than passable, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nothing,
and I am stuck in an elevator with Alessandra Ambrosio (OK, the first part is true, the second is just me daydreaming).
You like stamp collecting, recording your own toilet visits and sharing it on file sharing networks as MP3's wrongfully named as famous songs, and watching animal porn,
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 each other as soon as possible, since the Internet connection on my computer isn't working, and I figured I could browse through your computer during our "date".
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I want to remember what suffering feels like.
I'd really like us to become slowly solidified into a kind of buttery jell,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, before the police accidently found the body hidden in your closet.
Take care of yourself and never forget that despite all the nonsense I've written in this letter, I'm still going to track you down and kill you.
So where the bloody Hell are you?,
~ Your sycophantic lodger whom you will never be rid of.
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