Dear Sex toy,
By the time you read this, I'll be married. I regret to inform you that there were a number of contestants for my affections, and you were not the winner.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I don't think I could restrain myself from laughing about what I saw last night.
I know this might seem like an episode of Days of Our Lives
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Save the Children" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need to enter "4 8 15 16 23 42" into my command prompt every 108th minute.
I want to tell you that I think you are going to find out that the anthrax I've contaminated this letter with might be quite unpleasant once it's started to take hold on you, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Nazi war criminal,
and I am vastly more intelligent than that.
You like bothering foraging bears, harassing sheep until they explode, and smelling other people's 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 again, but in another life — preferably a previous one.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I watch Aphex Twin's music video for Windowlicker and the "hot babe" turns around.
I'd really like us to become partners in crime and rob helpless old ladies of their retirement savings,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, at least before we met.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the sniper rifle, and I know how to use it.
I hate you,
~ Princess Peach.
P.S. That was an Amanita virosa (destroying angel) you ate yesterday, not a button mushroom as I thought. Oops, I guess I'm really bad with mushrooms... D.S.
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