Dear Ex-Friend with Benefits,
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 don't think I could restrain myself from laughing about what I saw last night.
I know this might seem like a bit of a shock
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kill your parents and claim the life insurance money, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — sorry that I didn't take the chance to get rid of you last month, but I promise I'll make up for it the next time we meet. I just need to go to the moon or a gay retared place.
I want to tell you that I think you are my personal Jiminy Cricket, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are under surveillance by the CIA,
and I am vastly more intelligent than that.
You like toying with mousetraps, masturbating to gardening shows, and playing King Kong with dollhouses in toystores (and going to jail for it),
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 our respective parents, if only so we can feel unfaithful again.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need someone to help me move.
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 every time you masturbate, Friedrich Nietzsche kills God.
I hate you,
~ Lara Bingle.
P.S. I think I ran over your mom with my car earlier today. At least I think it was her, but there wasn't much left to identify... D.S.
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