Dear Regan MacNeil,
By the time you read this, I'll be at Gotthard Pass, having much more fun than you.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like the world isn't going to end on December 21, 2012 anyway.
I know this might seem like a letter of indulgence
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Save the Children" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — sorry that I didn't take the chance to get rid of you last month, but I promise I'll make up for it the next time we meet. I just need to enter "4 8 15 16 23 42" into my command prompt every 108th minute.
I want to tell you that I think you are going to get coal for Christmas this year, being as naughty as you are, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the demi-duchess of Kumswalla,
and I am into bodysurfing.
You like laying on the floor with all the lights off, dating circus midgets, and writing love letters to Bob Saget,
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 the hypnotism I'm paying for wears off.
I'd really like us to become people that pretend they never dated,
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.
See you in the afterlife, bitch,
~ Everyone else.
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