Dear disembodied head,
By the time you read this, I'll be in R'lyeh at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, worshiping great Cthulhu.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I finally got around to reading your "poems" this morning, and I figure that this is better than a bullet in the head.
I know this might seem like I'm into polygamy or something just because I have five wives at the same time, but Elisab... Rebecca... umm, I mean Sarah, you're the only one who truly matters, I swear. Surely our time together must still mean something
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to vacation in the Ivory Coast, and smuggle bits of it home to sell on the black market, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but honestly, putting my hamster in the microwave was too much. I just need more time alone. No... More time away from you. All of it, really. Yeah. That's what I mean to say.
I want to tell you that I think you are ...exceedingly punctual, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are possessed by Pazuzu,
and I am a champion pie eating finalist.
You like smoking banana peels, tripping on your own shoelaces on purpose just so you can blame the jews for it, 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 just as long as you are willing to spend half your life hanging by your pinkie toes, for that's the type of torture I have planned for you..
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I spy on you and your secret lover with the telescope from the treehouse across the street.
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, while we were three thousand miles away from each other.
Take care of yourself and never forget your true place in life (which is at my feet, groveling in abject obedience).
Good luck with your castrated penis,
~ The itsy bitsy spider.
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