Dear Gordon Freeman,
By the time you read this, I'll be in midtown London on a massive shopping spree with your credit card that I kind of "borrowed" earlier today (the pincode is 8391, isn't it?).
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like the world isn't going to end on December 21, 2012 anyway.
I know this might seem like an odd twist of fate
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to destroy the universe, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — it's just a shame I waited so long to do it, and wasted so much of my valuable time. 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 not the worst lover I ever had, but that would be a bald-faced lie, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are not even real, just a Sim character I created last week in The Sims 3,
and I am a grue and will certainly eat you the next time we meet.
You like flicking staples at livestock, harassing sheep until they explode, and gas tungsten arc welding,
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 each other's pets.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I want to, which isn't often.
I'd really like us to become people that pretend not to know each other,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, at least while we were in separate cells at the police station.
Take care of yourself and never forget to brush your teeth. Oh wait; you don't have any, you toothless old fuck.
Good luck with the police at your door,
~ Your split personality.
P.S. You forgot your dildo at my place when you visited me last Sunday. D.S.