Dear psychiatrist,
By the time you read this, I'll be feeding your pet goldfishes to my cats Hortensia and Petunia.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but you win some, you lose some - and in your case, you lose everything.
I know this might seem like a very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is)
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to adopt a child from a third world country for media publicity, 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 finish that annoying Zork game on that Uncyclopedia website I told you about yesterday (it's driving me crazy, it's like no matter what you do, you'll ALWAYS end up being eaten by a grue!).
I want to tell you that I think you are the creep who's making all those nightly phone calls where only heavy breathing is heard, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are committed, literally,
and I am disappointed.
You like flicking staples at livestock, bobbing for old tires in the East River, 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 other planets.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever do sadistic things to your digital duplicate in The Sims 3.
I'd really like us to become old without ever speaking to, or thinking of, each other ever again,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, before I decided to read through your diary last week.
Take care of yourself and never forget that Soylent Green tastes like spinach.
See you in the afterlife, bitch,
~ Concerned Citizen.
P.S. Do you know what the blue rhino said to the green elephant? If so, write it to me in return, because I don't. D.S.
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