Dear Gordon Freeman,
By the time you read this, I'll be at one with the universe.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but no, I am not going to stop sending these letters just because the judge and my psychiatrist told me not to.
I know this might seem like a sinister scheme from me to stage an "accident" and claim the life insurance policy on you (which it is)
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Save the Children" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... 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 evil incarnate, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the disembodied head of Patrick Duffy,
and I am your Siamese twin.
You like other men, harassing sheep until they explode, and arguing with the voices only you can hear over dinner plans,
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 own mirror images.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my house is in need of some serious cleaning up.
I'd really like us to become friends, but I think that won't happen. I rather not speak to you again,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, my left hand and I.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I'm much happier without you.
So where the bloody Hell are you?,
~ Dalai Llama.
P.S. I just found out that I have AIDS. That probably means you have it too. D.S.
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