Dear Flavour of the Month,
By the time you read this, I'll be tripping on shoelaces (I had no idea that you could get THIS high on them...).
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 an omitted chapter from Dante´s Divine Comedy
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to visit Easter Island and go on an egg hunt, 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 bit of a laugh.
I want to tell you that I think you are exceptionally undistinguished, in a boring, non-threatening way, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Democrat,
and I am a fucked-up loser who only likes to hang around you because of your money.
You like playing Worms 3D, big butts, and nibbling off wires to public computers at libraries and Internet cafés,
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 people without AIDS.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever Saturn orbits Pluto.
I'd really like us to become permanently estranged,
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 to double-bag "Uncle Willy" from now on.
See you in Hell,
~ The collective members of your band.
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