Dear God I can't believe I'll soon be rid of you at long last,
By the time you read this, I'll be stalked by that creep who calls himself Googlebot.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I know what you're thinking: "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?
I know this might seem like a kick in the nuts
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 — it's just a shame I waited so long to do it, and wasted so much of my valuable time. I just need to engage in homicidal behavior on a massive scale. It can not be corrected but I have no other way to fulfill my needs.
I want to tell you that I think you are a fucking ugly bitch, and I want to stab you to death, and then play around with your blood, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are scared of sheep,
and I am your father.
You like imitating 50s actors while shoe shopping, filling stuffed animals with ice cream, and smelling your fingers,
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 find another piece of Titanic buried in my backyard.
I'd really like us to become born-again strangers,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, before the psychatrist told me that you're just a figment of my imagination.
Take care of yourself and never forget that Soylent Green tastes like spinach.
Allah Ackbar,
~ (name is not important as we are all so much more than our names).
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