Dear John Malkovich,
By the time you read this, I'll be transferring my consciousness to a member of an extinct race of sentient egg-plants on planet Vollapus 620 million years ago.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but you weren't at home, and anyways I forgot to bring my AK with me.
I know this might seem like karmic kannibalism
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to grow old, fat and senile together, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — it's just a shame I waited so long to do it, and wasted so much of my valuable time. I just need to plot your murder for another week and I'm set to go.
I want to tell you that I think you are my repressed masculine side, 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 a member of a religion that has repeatedly confirmed that people like that are going to burn in hell.
You like trying to fit inside sewer drains, carving CD's into lethal shurikens with which to... kill people, and igniting your own fart,
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 — oh wait, I meant to write "hate" of course.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever a six-legged rhinoceros flies by.
I'd really like us to become acquaintances,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, I think.
Take care of yourself and never forget where you leave the keys. Honestly, those things are are a PAIN to find again.
Badger Badger Badger,
~ The collective members of your band.
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