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Dear John letter
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Dear wife nr. 18,
By the time you read this, I'll be in your room, stealing your socks.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but you win some, you lose some - and in your case, you lose everything.
I know this might seem like a cowardly way of telling you that I ran over your mom with fatal outcome just 10 minutes ago
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to drink the blood of every man, woman and child in Iraq, 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 evil incarnate, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are so fat that Jupiter orbits around you sometimes,
and I am a fucked-up loser who only likes to hang around you because of your money.
You like bungee jumping from church steeples, recording your own toilet visits and sharing it on file sharing networks as MP3's wrongfully named as famous songs, and finding out a random victim's e-mail address and subscribe it to every advertisement letter you can find,
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 our respective parents, if only so we can feel unfaithful again.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever the hypnotism I'm paying for wears off.
I'd really like us to become an African-American comedy duo,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, at least during those many hours of drug and alcohol induced unconsciousness.
Take care of yourself and never forget to brush your teeth. Oh wait; you don't have any, you toothless old fuck.
Auf wiedersehen,
~ Alan Smithee.
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