Dear Sperm Donor,
By the time you read this, I'll be doing my "happy dance" naked, on the side of the M25 motorway.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your feelings are inherently less valuable than mine.
I know this might seem like karmic kannibalism
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to drink the blood of every man, woman and child in Iraq, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — mostly. I just need a dirty magazine, my right hand and a toilet paper — that's all it takes, really.
I want to tell you that I think you are in need of some serious physical therapy against your hideous acid breath, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are from another dimension,
and I am not you.
You like using magnifying glasses to kill aunts, gay midgets, 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 on different continents.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I assassinate an infidel.
I'd really like us to become slowly solidified into a kind of buttery jell,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, I assume, in some other more cheerful reality among the infinite number of alternate universes out there.
Take care of yourself and never forget that each day of your life may be the last as long as I'm around.
Tonight we dine in Hell,
~ Tiddles.
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