Dear Bob,
By the time you read this, I'll be hiding inside a closet much closer too you than you'd feel comfortable with.
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 disappointing turn for the worse
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 to plot your murder for another week and I'm set to go.
I want to tell you that I think you are my personal Jiminy Cricket, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Nazi war criminal,
and I am a nun.
You like other men, painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, and filling guinea pigs with helium,
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 — oh wait, I meant to write "hate" of course.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone jokingly claims that there's a monster standing behind me.
I'd really like us to become born-again strangers,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, I assume, in some other more cheerful reality among the infinite number of alternate universes out there.
Take care of yourself and never forget to double-bag "Uncle Willy" from now on.
Seize the day (since tomorrow will be your last day alive),
~ Brother Eggs-over-easy.
P.S. Give me five million dollars now, or I'll scratch my own eyeballs out. Just kidding, he he he! I bet you fell for that one. D.S.