Dear John Malkovich,
By the time you read this, I'll be vandalizing Wikipedia.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but time is money, and according to your most current bank statement you have insufficient funds to purchase additional time credits with me.
I know this might seem like an insidious scheme to dominate the universe
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kidnap a first-grade school class together, 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 more space. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan is sounding pretty nice to me right now.
I want to tell you that I think you are a virgin, 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 a mother of two-and-a-half.
You like bathing in gasoline, harassing sheep until they explode, and disturbing annual sci-fi conventions with whistles and cymbals,
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 virtualized Sim replicas of each other.
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 an African-American comedy duo,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, even if they only lasted a few microseconds.
Take care of yourself and never forget to eat your vegetables.
Affectionally yours,
~ Your intestinal parasite.
P.S. Do you remember that VHS tape I showed you yesterday, the one with a towel-headed man and a well? If so, you now have six days left to live. Life's a bitch, ain't she? D.S.
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