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Dear John letter
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Dear LeChuck,
By the time you read this, I'll be vanished into thin air.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I finally got around to reading your "poems" this morning, and I figure that this is better than a bullet in the head.
I know this might seem like a sudden turn of events
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to slowly fade into non-existence, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — mostly. 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 the true identity of the Zodiac Killer, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nothing,
and I am an Uncyclopedia in-joke.
You like wearing my knickers on your noggin, filling stuffed animals with ice cream, and recommending suicide as the only viable cure for hiccups,
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 other people.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I smell that characteristic composite stench of rotten eggs, garlic and blue cheese again.
I'd really like us to become acquaintances,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, before I decided to read through your diary last week.
Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you wish for coal as a Christmas present, you'll get porridge instead.
May the Force be with you,
~ Lara Bingle.
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