Dear voices that I hear sometimes in my head,
By the time you read this, I'll be having future visions of myself in April 29, 2010.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but well... no, I'm not sorry. Lying was always my worst problem with you, and I'm sorry. No. No, I'm not.
I know this might seem like a sinister scheme from me to stage an "accident" and claim the life insurance policy on you (which it is)
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to slowly fade into non-existence, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — I think. 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 not the worst lover I ever had, but that would be a bald-faced lie, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Nazi war criminal,
and I am a schoolgirl.
You like attacking clergymen, huffing kittens, and recommending suicide as the only viable cure for hiccups,
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 everyone else in the world, just to find out the answer — or at least I should, you have no hope on that score.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my herpes sores erupt.
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, my left hand and I.
Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you see a rainbow, someone is having gay sex.
God bless you,
~ That Guy.
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