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Dear John letter
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Dear Passing Fancy,
By the time you read this, I'll be stalked by that creep who calls himself Googlebot.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I've misplaced my copy of Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" and I had to improvise.
I know this might seem like karmic kannibalism
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to throw the One Ring into the fires of Mount Doom in Mordor, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain intoxicated. I just need to find someone who is male and breathes — and quickly.
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 wanted in nineteen states,
and I am deaf, dumb and blind.
You like bathing in gasoline, contemplating suicide (but always being so damned indecisive), and dissecting frogs with butterknives,
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 for the hell of it. It's not like we don't both have herpes.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "anorexia", "bulimia" and/or "starvation" in my presence.
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, before the police accidently found the body hidden in your closet.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the Infinity Gauntlet and is thus the supreme being of this universe.
Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam,
~ Name and address withheld.
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