Dear Archchancellor,
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 with the restraining order and everything, I was scared to use the phone again.
I know this might seem like punch in the jaw
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push you into the sea tied to a large brick, 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 more space. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan is sounding pretty nice to me right now.
I want to tell you that I think you are ...good at Scrabble, if slightly obsessed with it, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are wanted in nineteen states,
and I am your father.
You like sucking off the black guy that mows your lawn, contemplating suicide (but always being so damned indecisive), and belly-button sniffing,
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 someone asks me what the ultimate expression of the ongoing cultural and genetic decay of humanity is.
I'd really like us to become old without ever speaking to, or thinking of, each other ever again,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, while we were three thousand miles away from each other.
Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you see a rainbow, someone is having gay sex.
Good bye and good riddance!,
~ Your sycophantic lodger whom you will never be rid of.
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