Dear Freak of the Week,
By the time you read this, I'll be in your room, stealing your socks.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but well... no, I'm not sorry. Lying was always my worst problem with you, and I'm sorry. No. No, I'm not.
I know this might seem like an episode of Days of Our Lives
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to cannibalize your family, 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 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 on my long list of middle-rated and easily forgotten ex's, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are an agnostic,
and I am suicidal.
You like attacking clergymen, gay midgets, and finding out a random victim's e-mail address and subscribe it to every advertisement letter you can find,
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 for the hell of it. It's not like we don't both have herpes.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I practice knife stabbing on mannequin dolls.
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, during my opiate daydream earlier today, after which I woke up to the cold and harsh reality again.
Take care of yourself and never forget all the people we've killed together.
Greetings,
~ The Samaritans.
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