Dear Sir/Madam,
By the time you read this, I'll be held at gunpoint by my twisted aunt Maggie for stealing cookies from the cookie jar.
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 , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Amnesty International" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, 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 to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly.
I want to tell you that I think you are not as good looking as your MySpace photo made it appear, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the demi-duchess of Kumswalla,
and I am disappointed.
You like urine sample collecting, filling stuffed animals with ice cream, and accusing comatose patients of lazyness,
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 people without AIDS.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I spy on your naked self with the hidden camera I've installed in your shower stall.
I'd really like us to become friends, but I think that won't happen. I rather not speak to you again,
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 Soylent Green tastes like spinach.
Living is easy with eyes closed,
~ Your split personality.
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