Dear Flavour of the Month,
By the time you read this, I'll be sent to the cornfield.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I finally got around to reading your "poems" this morning, and I figure that this is better than a bullet in the head.
I know this might seem like , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to continue grossing out teens and old people with our cherished "skinny dip and snogging" expeditions to the fountain in the public square, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter. I just need to go to the moon or a gay retared place.
I want to tell you that I think you are ...more than passable, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are committed, literally,
and I am angry.
You like to sabotage ice hockey matches by repeatedly throwing out extra pucks onto the rink, gay midgets, and watching animal porn,
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 but only so I'll get another shot at killing your for real.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I'm pissed off.
I'd really like us to become snobbish self-styled intellectuals who always change the subject to 19th century Russian literature in order to look smart everytime a third person approaches,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, unless I was just dreaming.
Take care of yourself and never forget our honeymoon with Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.
Auf wiedersehen,
~ Tiddles.
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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