Dear disembodied head,
By the time you read this, I'll be eaten alive by Jabba the Hutt.
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 , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to vacation in the Ivory Coast, and smuggle bits of it home to sell on the black market, 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 more time alone. No... More time away from you. All of it, really. Yeah. That's what I mean to say.
I want to tell you that I think you are a Terminator sent from the future to kill me, 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 the creep who have been sending you human ears every Friday for the last eight months.
You like to sabotage ice hockey matches by repeatedly throwing out extra pucks onto the rink, stabbing yourself with carrots, and you cannot lie, the other brothers can't deny, when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in your face you get sprung,
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 in Purgatory.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone jokingly claims that there's a monster standing behind me.
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, which lasted until you unexpectedly woke up from your coma.
Take care of yourself and never forget all the people we've killed together.
Viva la revolution,
~ Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.
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