Dear John Bull,
By the time you read this, I'll be feeding your pet goldfishes to my cats Hortensia and Petunia.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but my eyes have yet to fully recover from last week when your wig fell off.
I know this might seem like a very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is)
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push the boundaries of human genetics past the point of good taste by procreating, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but as a bisexual, I'm interested in only two kinds of people — and quite frankly, you don't fit into either category. I just need more sex, and for longer than the 3 minutes and 2 inches you're able to provide... or was it the other way around? Anyway...
I want to tell you that I think you are a Terminator sent from the future to kill me, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a furry,
and I am not.
You like forcing naughty school children to read the Necronomicon, carving CD's into lethal shurikens with which to... kill people, and gas tungsten arc welding,
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 I practice knife stabbing on mannequin dolls.
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 assume, in some other more cheerful reality among the infinite number of alternate universes out there.
Take care of yourself and never forget that the xenomorph implanted in your chest is going to erupt and kill you violently within two hours.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,
~ Your very dissatisfied penis.
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