Dear you with that unpronouncable name,
By the time you read this, I'll be in your room, stealing your socks.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but my sadistic urges have become completely uncontrollable, and I don’t think I can see you again without having to torture you.
I know this might seem like an unexpected departure
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to throw the One Ring into the fires of Mount Doom in Mordor, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but another officer is at the door - I'll write more in an hour. I just need to go to the moon or a gay retared place.
I want to tell you that I think you are the worst Tetris player ever, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are so fat that Jupiter orbits around you sometimes,
and I am really your split personality, writing letters to itself and pretending to be an actual person.
You like toying with mousetraps, dating circus midgets, 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 on different continents.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I throw up.
I'd really like us to become the de facto lead couple in one of those crappy never ending sitcoms that plays annoying canned laughter after every damn sentence, be it funny or not,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, or so we'll pretend.
Take care of yourself and never forget that everything in this letter was a lie.
Tonight we dine in Hell,
~ DJ Pie Saftey.
P.S. You left your Britney Spears album here yesterday. Heck, do you actually listen to that crap? D.S.
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