Dear Jimbo,
By the time you read this, I'll be staring at the sun with the intent of becoming blind.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but no, I am not going to stop sending these letters just because the judge and my psychiatrist told me not to.
I know this might seem like an unexpected departure
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to destroy the universe, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need to enter "4 8 15 16 23 42" into my command prompt every 108th minute.
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 heiress to the throne of Rondark,
and I am that lonely obsessed stalker who refused to just settle for your autograph.
You like sucking off the black guy that mows your lawn, talking like Captain Kirk, and practicing surgery on household pests,
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 again someday, but only if you go in for surgery and get you brain replaced. And your nose. Or to keep it simple, ask them to change everything but your name. Or have them change that as well, unless doing so would complicate billing.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I smell that characteristic composite stench of rotten eggs, garlic and blue cheese again.
I'd really like us to become people that ignore each other in public,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, well, no... but no-one else has to know that.
Take care of yourself and never forget to have your pets sprayed and neutered.
I hate you,
~ The unmentionable one.
P.S. You're fired! D.S.
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