Dear Santa,
By the time you read this, I'll be in pitched battle with God and all his host of angels.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but no, I am not going to stop sending these letters just because the judge and my psychiatrist told me not to.
I know this might seem like karmic kannibalism
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to alphabetize our combined compact disc collections someday, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but another officer is at the door - I'll write more in an hour. I just need more space. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan is sounding pretty nice to me right now.
I want to tell you that I think you are a..well...um...okay, nice...yeah...maybe, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a pederast,
and I am worried about it.
You like smoking banana peels, talking like Captain Kirk, and arguing with the voices only you can hear over dinner plans,
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's pets.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need a good laugh.
I'd really like us to become partners in crime and steal candy from helpless little kids,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, I think.
Take care of yourself and never forget that it's going to take more than a restraining order to keep me away from our children — they are mine too and I will not be denied them.
Good luck with your castrated penis,
~ You, before you became amnesiac.
P.S. I accidentally dropped your cat into a bowl of hydrochloric acid yesterday. I'm afraid she got sent to the cornfield. Sorry about that. D.S.
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