Dear me, I do believe I've forgotten your name,
By the time you read this, I'll be doing my "happy dance" naked, on the side of the M25 motorway.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I've misplaced my copy of Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" and I had to improvise.
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 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 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 to plot your murder for another week and I'm set to go.
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 a pedophile,
and I am everything you will never be.
You like flicking staples at livestock, masturbating to gardening shows, and accusing comatose patients of lazyness,
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 Isle of Man.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I assassinate an infidel.
I'd really like us to become friends, but I think that won't happen. I rather not speak to you again,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, before we ended up in Hell together.
Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you see a rainbow, someone is having gay sex.
Fuck off,
~ Sailor Moon.
P.S. That was an Amanita virosa (destroying angel) you ate yesterday, not a button mushroom as I thought. Oops, I guess I'm really bad with mushrooms... D.S.
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