Dear Poster Child for the Criminally Insane,
By the time you read this, I'll be feeding your pet goldfishes to my cats Hortensia and Petunia.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your feelings are inherently less valuable than mine.
I know this might seem like a big surprise
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to hack into Pentagon's databases and expose the alien cover-up in Roswell, 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 ...exceedingly punctual, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a satanist,
and I am a Mousketeer.
You like stomping on turtles after eating mushrooms, gay midgets, 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 when Hell freezes over.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my house is in need of some serious cleaning up.
I'd really like us to become supervillains and plot to conquer the world together (after which I will kill you as there can only be one true Master),
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, before we ended up in Hell together.
Take care of yourself and never forget where you leave the keys. Honestly, those things are are a PAIN to find again.
See you in the afterlife, bitch,
~ George Philipp Telemann.
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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