Dear Mario,
By the time you read this, I'll be tied to a score of helium balloons, thinking about some non-fatal way of coming back down to earth safely (help, please?).
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but my eyes have yet to fully recover from last week when your wig fell off.
I know this might seem like a crappy thing to do
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to spend at least more than two hours together, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. I just need nails, matches and a voodoo doll of you.
I want to tell you that I think you are my repressed feminine side, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nobody,
and I am not the type of person to be running around screaming that I have a "relationship".
You like other men, dating circus midgets, and watching DaxFlame on YouTube while singing "Lucy in the Sky of Diamonds",
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 species.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I finally track you down and kill you.
I'd really like us to become road sweepers or something,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, assuming that "good times" is just another way of saying "total suckage".
Take care of yourself and never forget that each day of your life may be the last as long as I'm around.
Police be upon you,
~ Dalai Llama.
P.S. I poured some arsenic into your food yesterday. Shows what I think of infidelity, you unfaithful wench! D.S.
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