Dear Flavour of the Month,
By the time you read this, I'll be aiming at you with a sniper rifle.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I have stolen three nuclear warheads and am planning to commit suicide by detonating them (in midtown New York, just to spice things up).
I know this might seem like a sudden change
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to trade all our remaining STDs even-steven, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need a dirty magazine, my right hand and a toilet paper — that's all it takes, really.
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 a pederast,
and I am on drugs.
You like flicking staples at livestock, filling stuffed animals with ice cream, and belly-button sniffing,
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 again, but in another life — preferably a previous one.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I'm too lazy to clean my dishes by myself.
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, during my opiate daydream earlier today, after which I woke up to the cold and harsh reality again.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I have your son and will kill him unless you transfer five million dollars to my bank account by next Thursday.
That'll teach you,
~ Captain Obvious.
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.