Dear Ex-Friend with Benefits,
By the time you read this, I'll be a blowing rich, retired businessmen on a slow boat to China.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your needs are inherently less important than mine.
I know this might seem like karmic kannibalism
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to sink the British isles, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but as a bisexual, I'm interested in only two kinds of people — and quite frankly, you don't fit into either category. I just need to engage in homicidal behavior on a massive scale. It can not be corrected but I have no other way to fulfill my needs.
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 the flesh and blood scion of the Devil himself,
and I am the main character in a really crappy pulp horror novel about rabid watermelons.
You like forcing naughty school children to read the Necronomicon, insult sword fighting, and smelling your fingers,
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 on other planets.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I spy on you and your secret lover with the telescope from the treehouse across the street.
I'd really like us to become engaged in a brutal medieval fight to the death with the good ole' armour, horse and lances (but only if I get to win),
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, even if they only lasted a few microseconds.
Take care of yourself and never forget to brush your teeth. Oh wait; you don't have any, you toothless old fuck.
I hate you,
~ Hannibal Lecter.
P.S. Now I have a machine gun. Ho ho ho. D.S.