Dear Rocky Balboa,
By the time you read this, I'll be in jail. Three hots and a cot, and the judge says I can refuse to see anyone I want, including you. Finally.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like I'm not going to kill you on Saturday anyway.
I know this might seem like an odd twist of fate
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to cannibalize your family, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain high. I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule.
I want to tell you that I think you are like an impudent grain of sand, warring against a raging ocean, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the only one in the world who actually thinks Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer are funny,
and I am all that and more.
You like stomping on turtles after eating mushrooms, painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, and watching DaxFlame on YouTube while singing "Lucy in the Sky of Diamonds",
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 elsewhere.
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 permanently estranged,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, which lasted until you unexpectedly woke up from your coma.
Take care of yourself and never forget where you leave the keys. Honestly, those things are are a PAIN to find again.
Happy Thanksgiving,
~ You, before you became amnesiac.
P.S. You are the one billionth person to read this letter. Click here to receive your prize! D.S.
Featured Article (read another featured article)
