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Dear John letter
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Dear Loser,
By the time you read this, I'll be composing a concerto for 3 bassoons and a trombone.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but with your breath, a letter seemed the safest option.
I know this might seem like a bit of a shock
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to blow up the moon together, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — mostly. I just need more space. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan is sounding pretty nice to me right now.
I want to tell you that I think you are my repressed feminine side, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are one of Evil Bert's sinister henchmen,
and I am stuck in an elevator and slowly succumbing to my own flatulence (since I had nothing but pea soup and brown beans this morning).
You like guessing the weight of elderly women, contemplating suicide (but always being so damned indecisive), 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 each other sometime in the next millennia.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me what the ultimate expression of the ongoing cultural and genetic decay of humanity is.
I'd really like us to become bitter enemies, constantly plotting each other's downfall until one of us (preferably me) succeeds, giving that person (again, preferably me) the opportunity to engage in stereotypical maniacal laughter,
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 to write down the number of every donkey cart that hits you.
Allah Ackbar,
~ 4.252.99.182.
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