Dear Big Bertha,
By the time you read this, I'll be telling our children why your inches mattered that much.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but attorneys cost money, and I'm eating for two now, if you know what I mean.
I know this might seem like a slap in the face
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to terrorize the elderly couple that lives down the road, 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 kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly.
I want to tell you that I think you are composed mainly of various carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, phosphorus, iron, copper, magnesium, sulfur, calcium, potassium, iodine, sodium and silicon compounds (well, duh...), 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 a champion pie eating finalist.
You like flaying lambs, playing with your pasta meals until it looks like the Flying Spaghetti Monster before proceeding to eat it, and genitally piercing unsuspecting strangers in unemployment line queues,
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 I finally track you down and kill you.
I'd really like us to become people that pretend they never dated,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, which lasted until you unexpectedly woke up from your coma.
Take care of yourself and never forget that everything in this letter was a lie.
Caió,
~ The itsy bitsy spider.
P.S. This is what the alphabet would look like without Q and R. D.S.