Dear you with that unpronouncable name,
By the time you read this, I'll be constrained within a straight-jacket in some place soft, drooling obscenely over your past nude pictures.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but enough is enough. I've HAD it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!
I know this might seem like an omitted chapter from Dante´s Divine Comedy
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Red Cross" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, 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 a bit of a laugh.
I want to tell you that I think you are Jimbo, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are wanted in nineteen states,
and I am suicidal.
You like to sabotage ice hockey matches by repeatedly throwing out extra pucks onto the rink, harassing sheep until they explode, and playing King Kong with dollhouses in toystores (and going to jail for it),
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 other planets.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I dig your cold, dead body up again to have sex with you.
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, at least before we met.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I know where you live, your name and what you look like, so beware.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,
~ Conomor the Cursed.
P.S. Now I have a machine gun. Ho ho ho. D.S.
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